


In The Days Gone By Nine Worlds I Knew

by fairywine



Series: For Winter First Did Come [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Nyotalia, heavy hinting though, historical fic, historical geekery ahoy, mostly pairing free, rome being rome, tagged just to be fair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywine/pseuds/fairywine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where everything begins for them, once upon a time in the cold North. 0CE-476CE, part of the <i>For Winter First Did Come</i> series.  [Sweden-centric][Historical!Nordics with  some Nyotalia elements]</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Days Gone By Nine Worlds I Knew

**Author's Note:**

> This a re-edited and updated version of an earlier work, _The Wellspring of All Things_. Title comes from the Voluspo portion of the Poetic Edda. More extensive author's notes are at the end, but a small guide since people have mentioned having trouble with it before. The pronounciation of the Old Norse name for Sweden, Svíþjóð, is roughly as follows: "Suvi-thi-yoth". Please enjoy!

The oldest memory the child has is of a world of ice and snow, pure whiteness blanketing everything in cold so intense every breath feels like a stabbing. Time passes in a cycle of seasons, from frosted winter to spring’s green grace, from the blessing of summer’s vibrant warmth to fall and the harvest until the world loses all color again and everything starts anew.  
  
The woman who comes one day, tall and blonde and stern of countenance, disrupts this.

The child gazes up at her with a mixture of trepidation, for the ax resting on the woman’s shoulder is sharp indeed despite its many marks of use, and…well…curiosity. Somehow, the two of them are the same.  
  
“You,” The stranger speaks up suddenly, forest-green eyes as cutting as her weapon. “You are the embodiment of these lands?”  
  
Despite being phrased as a question, more than anything it comes across as a statement of fact. Either way, it doesn’t matter, and the young one gives a tiny nod in response. The woman, though the child would not have believed it possible, straightens even more at that. In her leathers and armor she is every bit the capable warrior, ready to fall into combat at a moment’s notice. Even though the child can somehow sense the woman means no harm, it is difficult to not be intimidated.  
  
“My people came here some time ago, but it seems only recently the conditions were right to allow your existence. This whole region as of late, it has been quite amenable to…” The warrior-woman says, more to herself than anything else. She stops abruptly, gives the child a piercing stare. “I have been looking for you, Svíþjóð.”  
  
It’s strange, the effect the saying of that name has. A shiver runs through the child, who feels more real, more _there_ than just a moment before. The woman notices-not much escapes her, evidently-and the stare gains an edge of knowingness.  
  
“Felt that, did you?” Those words are another one of those statement-as-question phrasings, but the child-Svíþjóð-still feels too shaken to pay it much mind. “Words have power, little one. And names are one of those things that have more power than anything. It’s one of the things you’ll learn with me.”  
  
“W’th y’?” Svíþjóð whispers, finding the nerve to meet the woman’s eyes for the first time. A breeze comes by, stirring the braids scattered here and there in the stranger’s long hair. It’s a cold, unforgiving wind, sinking through the clothes into what feels like the bones themselves. Winter is upon the land.  
  
“You are young. Small.” The woman waves a hand about at the withered land around her, the dying autumn giving its last breath of life before the frost comes. “And these lands are not the most forgiving. If you wish to survive, come with me. I’ll teach you what I know, rear you until you’re strong enough to stand on your own feet.”  
  
Svíþjóð hesitates for a moment, staring down at the solid earth. The woman has a point, but more than that…it is hard, being utterly alone despite the presence of people who called the lands home. Their lives are so short, the merest blink of an eye. And this woman is the same as Svíþjóð. The decision isn’t long in coming, as it happens.  
  
“A’right. I’ll go w’th y’.” Svíþjóð lifts one hand out, lets it be grasped in turn by a much larger one clad in animal hide. The woman releases it after a moment, and there is something like a frown knitting her already stern features.  
  
“You’re-” The woman shakes her head before Svíþjóð can ask what’s wrong. “This makes things a bit harder for you, but...” She pauses, a look of quick, intense thought on her face. “From this day on, you shall be my son.”  
  
The Land doesn’t elaborate on her words, instead moving the axe to be held in place by a strap on her back. Task done, she turns and starts to slowly walk away, that Svíþjóð should follow implicit. Svíþjóð does take after her, grateful the woman is at least taking the difference in their strides into account, before a question rises up.  
  
“Y’r name?” Svíþjóð mumbles, doing his best to keep up. The woman doesn’t respond right away, merely slipping agilely through the gray woods. Svíþjóð considers asking again by the time they reach the horse tethered to one of the trees, only to find himself picked up and settled easily on the saddle.  
  
“Germania is my name, little one,” The woman says as she frees her horse. She places one booted foot in the stirrup before lifting herself onto her mount with ease. “Know it well.”

Germania lashes the reins, digs her heels into the beast’s side. The horse goes into a smooth trot with the ease of the well-trained. The Land pulls at the reins once more, turning the horse southwards.  
  
“S’th?” Svíþjóð speaks up, turning to look at Germania from where he sits. Germania looks as stoic as ever, but there is something of a glint in her eyes like anticipation.  
  
“A feeling I have, but one I believe will be fruitful,” Germania says. “We have two days travel ahead of us, but at their end I would not be surprised if our group expanded.”  
  
Svíþjóð absorbs that. “L’ke us?”  
  
“Like _you_ , little one,” Germania replies. “There is another like you.”  
  
The Land doesn’t explain beyond that, but Svíþjóð manages to clamp down on his questions. He may be young, but a rare depth of patience is already in his nature. What difference does a few days make in his curiosity being satisfied?  
  
The journey passes in silence otherwise-even this far into their new relationship it’s obvious neither Germania nor Svíþjóð are the kind who feel the need to fill the quiet with chatter. It’s a relief not to have to converse, in a way, and between that and the rocking motion of the steed the child drifts off, secure in his guardian’s arms.  
  
It’s the cessation of movement that rouses Svíþjóð from his doze. Rubbing drowsily at his eyes, he looks around and tries to orient himself. They’ve stopped near a wide river, and Svíþjóð absently traces the accompanying vein on his own body. Behind him, Germania dismounts effortlessly before plucking Svíþjóð off the horse and setting him on the ground.  
  
“We’ll make camp for the night,” Germania briskly states. The bundle she lifts off her horse where it’s strapped on looks heavy, but Germania handles it like it weighs nothing at all. Pulling out a feedbag, she lets her steed eat to his fill after such a long stretch traveling before leading it down to the river to partake of the water. Svíþjóð glances up at her when she brings the horse back to the encampment and tethers it securely, wondering if there is something he is supposed to do.  
  
“Fire first,” Germania says, evidently reading his line of thought. She beckons him over, and paces the clearing by the water a bit until she finds a spot that meets her standards. “Consider this our first lesson, and an important one at that. Tell me about this spot.”  
  
Svíþjóð looks carefully, squinting in the light that even now is gradually fading into night. “’S level. ‘N dry.”  
  
Germania inclines her head, but the air around her speaks of approval so Svíþjóð isn’t self-conscious about it. “That’s a start. You want to think of your location first for an overnight fire. A place where you can be near enough to take in the warmth, but still have enough distance your night vision doesn’t suffer nor is there risk of the trees nearby catching sparks. Being near a food source like a river is good, too.”  
  
“Mm,” Svíþjóð replies, more to show he’s paying attention than anything else.  
  
“Now we need to prepare a pit. We need rocks, dry ones, and dry wood as well,” Germania continues authoritatively. She looks around, skimming the area. Evidently spotting whatever she was looking for, she strides off before returning with a branch. Birch, Svíþjóð can tell. “You want wood like this. Burns hot and fast. There’s a copse just north a ways. Go and gather as many dry, fallen branches as you can carry.”  
  
Svíþjóð does as told, finding the wooded area in question without difficulty. There are plenty of branches, and in no time at all his arms are near-overflowing with wood. But the amount he can carry is not all that much with his small limbs, and so the trip is made four times over back and forth until he is satisfied. When he returns with his final load, Germania already has stones laid out in a half-circle formation, and is carefully scraping down the branch she had first brought over into the space within.  
  
“Ah, that shall suffice.” Germania gestures Svíþjóð to come closer. “Observe. All the wood you gathered would do no good without a foundation to fuel it.” Her knife moves steady and practiced, flakes of fine tinder drifting to the earth. “Branch scrapings, pine needles. These work well. Not leaves, they are too light.”  
  
She tosses the last bit of birch into the pit and rises. There is a skein in her hands, most likely filled with water from the river. Germania circles the stones, dampening the ground around them while being careful not to get anything else wet. “We shall have need of your firewood now.”  
  
Svíþjóð watches as Germania starts with the smaller branches, layering them so the size gradually increases. Following her example as best he could, he helps and takes Germania’s lack of comment as a sign he is copying her to her satisfaction. Together they pile about half of what Svíþjóð has gathered up before the woman ushers him back.

Taking two pieces of flint, Germania strikes them together close to a bit of brush. Once, twice, then on the third time the spark takes and sets it alight. Shielding it from the wind, she places it carefully where the tinder foundation meets the sticks, letting it flare up slow and steady.  
  
“Enough now,” Germania eventually says once it’s obvious the fire is strong. “Let us make for the river. Fresh fish is far preferable to salted game.”

* * *

 The crackling of dying flames wakes Svíþjóð before anything else, even the light from the morning sun. He tries not to stir too obviously, but the pattern of Germania’s breathing where he is curled against her shows she is already awake and most likely has been for a while now. Giving up any pretense at slumber, Svíþjóð stretches out to wipe away the stiffness from his limbs.

“We have another good half-day’s travel ahead of us,” Germania speaks up in her usual clipped tone. “Take care of any matters you have while I put the fire out and let Unnr take his fill of water.”  
  
That’s permission enough for him. By the time Svíþjóð comes back, bodily needs taken care of and face still damp from a refreshing splash of river-water, Germania has completely taken apart the fire pit. The ashes are spread out so as to prevent their reigniting, the embers dead and stones cold.

The satchel full of supplies has already been strapped to Unnr’s side, and he stands untethered and ready to ride. Once more, Svíþjóð finds himself placed in the front of the saddle, Germania seated behind him and holding the reins. Unnr falls into a trot at Germania’s lead, as smooth and powerful as the waves he is named for.  
  
From this point on they follow the path of the river. It’s a little hard for Svíþjóð to tell exactly, but judging from the position of the sun they are taking a distinctly south-western route. Curiosity burns a little stronger than yesterday, but it isn’t enough for him to be willing to break the silence that has taken hold once more. Maybe it’s that Svíþjóð was by himself until Germania’s arrival, but words are an awkward dealing at best. The quiet is much easier.  
  
Eventually, the gelid rushing of the river is increasingly overwhelmed by the sounds of the sea. Svíþjóð can spot the controlled columns of smoke that signal a settlement and knows they are close to their next stopping point. By the time they reach the outskirts of the village he is fighting the urge to look around, this being the first time he has seen so many people in one place before.

Plenty of eyes fall on them both as Unnr trots into the settlement, but Svíþjóð is too busy straining his eyes to see the ocean to be bothered by it. Gazing at the black-blue water, what little of it he can view from where they are, causes any number of feelings to rise up within. There’s fear, from being so close to the very edge of his lands, for what lies beyond that he knows not. But more than that is a longing so intense it makes his head swim. The sea calls irresistibly, and the world has never seemed so endless until now.  
  
“Ah, you really are one of mine,” Germania speaks up suddenly, breaking the spell the rolling waters had woven. She dismounts, leaving Svíþjóð in the saddle as she leads Unnr to a feeding trough. “Grasp the sea, and the whole world is in your reach.”  
  
Svíþjóð flushes red and doesn’t say anything, unsure of how to respond to that.

Fortunately, the arrival of a few men clad in garb very similar to Germania’s spares him from having to do so. Tying the reins to a post by the trough, she speaks to them in a low, urgent tone, too quietly for Svíþjóð to make anything out. They seem to be negotiating, and soon enough they finish. The leader of the small group and Germania grasp each other’s forearms in a kind of shake, after which she passes a little bag that jingles with coin to him. She returns to where Svíþjóð waits, helping him down from Unnr.  
  
“That desire of yours is going to be filled soon enough, little one,” Germania says as she sets him down on the ground. “We will leave Unnr here and cross the waters in an hour’s time.”  
  
A tremor runs through Svíþjóð’s tiny body at that, but he tries his best to remain composed and unaffected. Still, he sneaks another glance at the waters, as if trying hard enough will let him catch a glimpse of those lands where another like him might be found. The wind carries the scent of salt-water to him, causing Svíþjóð’s shoulder-length hair to blow into his face. He brushes it away to fruitless effort, the air determined to have its way.  
  
“Nn,” Svíþjóð grunts, feeling annoyed. “Sh’ld cut it.”  
  
“That…” Germania starts, like she’s weighing her words carefully, “Will not be necessary. Here.” There is a thin leather thong wrapped around her wrist several times, and she unwinds it swiftly before cutting a portion of it off with her knife. Kneeling down, she pulls Svíþjóð’s hair back into a ponytail at the base of his neck. “Warriors wear their hair long. Don’t be like the Romans.”  
  
“Rom’ns?” Svíþjóð asks, not really sure who or what that is, or why it would cause such a deep flash of irritation to cross Germania’s normally unreadable face.  
  
“Let it out of your mind,” Germania says in tone that books no argument. Her green eyes flick over Svíþjóð, so intense it’s hard not to squirm under it. “We must put the time we have before leaving to good use. Fortunately, this is a port town. You need better clothing.” A pause. “Something blue, I should think.”  
  
Svíþjóð can’t help but look down at himself at that, at the billowing shift he’s always worn. He’s never really paid it much attention before, but looking around he can see the benefits of the attire his people sport. Warmer, for one, and more durable. Glancing up at Germania for instruction, she gives the smallest wave of her hand before turning to walk off. 

He follows once more, the sights and sounds of the markets nearly overwhelming compared to stillness of the forests. Finally they arrive at a stall piled high with cloth in a rainbow of colors, and Germania goes straight into haggling with the vendor. Svíþjóð quickly loses interest after it becomes obvious the blonde woman’s cutting glare places her as inevitably coming out with the better end of the deal.  
  
Instead, he looks over at the wares themselves. His eyes are drawn to the ones small enough for him to wear, but Svíþjóð doesn’t find any one he particularly likes. The red tunic banded with black is too flashy, the yellow too ostentatious, and the green doesn’t really catch his eye either. Then, hidden beneath the others, he spots a short-sleeved tunic the deep navy of a starry night sky. The negotiating between the adults seems distant as he pulls it out and examines the piece. The cloth is surprisingly soft, and breathes despite the warmth of it. The stitching is even and strong, resulting in something durable yet pleasing to the sight.  
  
“Ah, that one?” The merchant breaks in, noticing the attention Svíþjóð is paying to the garb. “The little one has a good eye. That piece was originally commissioned for a chieftain’s son, before he took with fever. A pity. That does remind me, though…”

Digging through a chest situated behind him, a longer-sleeved white tunic, soft brown leather breeches, with boots and a belt of the same material are eventually displayed before them both. Svíþjóð traces his fingers over the design stamped in the strap, horses in a full gallop. “There, the full set. Is it not beautiful? And just the right size for your son, truly an auspicious sign.”  
  
“Beauty is not my concern so much as functionality,” Germania replies, not giving the tiniest breath of an advantage to the merchant. “One cannot keep Ullr away with fine embroidery alone.” Her gaze drifts over the set, and though her expression gives off an air of being unconvinced Svíþjóð somehow feels she likes what she sees more than she is letting on. “The frost is due soon enough.”  
  
Under Germania’s sharp glare Svíþjóð notices the tradesman falter, stuttering nervously before pulling out one last item from the chest-a heavy woolen cloak of the same navy as the tunic, the hood lined with golden rabbit fur. “T-then if we added in the cloak too? One hundred assarius for the lot.”  
  
The way Germania stares him down reminds Svíþjóð of a wolf a second before it leaps to tear out a deer’s throat. “Eighty assarius, with stockings thrown in as well.”  
  
“Eighty-five, and that’s my final offer, or do you mean to take food right from the mouths of my family?” The merchant quavers a little despite his bold words. Germania keeps it up a few moments longer before giving the tiniest incline of her head.  
  
“Eighty-five assarius it is, then,” The blonde agrees, and Svíþjóð can’t help but wonder at the visible relief on the trader’s face. Germania reaches into the satchel at her side for a bag weighty with coin, but first takes all the articles but for the cloak and passed them to Svíþjóð.  
  
“Change while I pay him,” Germania says, point to a small curtained area towards the back of the booth he hadn’t noticed until now. “Or do you need help?”  
  
Svíþjóð shakes his head. “’s fine.” He goes over lest she press the veracity of that statement, and recalling how the people they had passed earlier wore their clothes manages to get the clothes on more or less without incident. By the time the curtain is pulled back to reveal his guardian, Svíþjóð is tugging the navy tunic over the longer white one, breeches, stockings and boots already on. It’s unfamiliar but not uncomfortable, and the new clothes bring with them a kind of strange confidence.  
  
“Mm…” Germania comments, the set of her mouth a little less stern than usual. “It suits you.” She kneels down to strap the belt firmly around his waist, adjust the set of the tunic. As she does so, he notices the red tunic he passed over earlier under her arm, along with the navy cloak and a few other articles of clothing.  
  
She catches his staring and lifts an eyebrow just the slightest bit. “Foresight, little one, is one of the most valuable gifts anyone can train themselves to have. Regardless of how things go, I know these clothes will be put to use.” Germania tucks the goods into her side bag at that and straightens up. “Come now. Our boat should be journey-ready at the docks by the time we get there.”

* * *

 The vessel bobs in the water, long and streamlined as a sword. There is the head of some lizard-like creature carved at its front, and Svíþjóð looks on in fascination while Germania converses with men who look as solid and tough as the wood of their ships. The sea occasionally sprays up with a fine, salty mist but even that isn’t enough to make him back away.

“Njörðr smiles upon us this day,” Germania cuts through his reverie, tone satisfied. “The waters are good-we should make land by nightfall.”  
  
Svíþjóð forces down the jolt of nerves that those words bring on, silently taking his guardian’s outstretched hand to let himself be helped into the craft. The rocking of the wood under his feet, so alien against the solid earth he had never left before, makes him nearly stumble and fall over before his sea legs come. Embarrassed with his clumsiness, Svíþjóð sits down on one of the benches that lined the boat, just out of the way of an oar thicker than both his arms put together.  
  
There are eight benches lining the boat in total, and soon enough the men Germania had been talking too earlier fill them up, two to a bench. Germania sits herself next to him and takes up an oar of her own, while a great bear of a man takes up the one on Svíþjóð’s other side with a wink. His cheeks redden in response, and he scoots a little closer to the blonde woman, taking comfort in her familiarity.  
  
The large man- Hroerkr, Svíþjóð discovers quickly-barks out some commands to the others, and in no time at all they push away from the shore with a gliding so smooth his stomach twists a bit before settling. The sun is starting to make its inexorable journey downward, and already the blue sky is giving way to the creeping invasion of scarlet and ochre.

One of the men behind them starts singing, deep and low, voices joining in one by one in a song Svíþjóð knows in his being, even if this is his first time hearing it with his own ears. The sound of Germania’s voice joining in the very last, strong and unwavering, lulls him to sleep in time with the rolling of the cerulean waves.  
  
The jolt of the boat stopping suddenly rouses Svíþjóð, hours later judging from the dark of the star-scattered night. The lightness and shallow design of the boat has taken them right up to a beach unfamiliar to him-they are no longer within the lands that make up his body.  
  
It’s an utterly strange feeling, Svíþjóð thinks as Germania helps him off the longship. To step on earth that is not his own flesh, to see water that isn’t his own blood. The uncertainty is overwhelming for a moment, and if he clutches Germania’s hand a little more tightly than normal she at least doesn’t react to it.  
  
“And when should we return for you and the little one, mine Homeland?” Hroerkr rumbles, glancing inquisitively around at the lands.  
  
Germania doesn’t respond right away to that, gently loosening Svíþjóð’s hand away before kneeling to the ground and pressing both palms into it. She closes her eyes, strong concentration evident on her face. They both stare at her, ignorant of her intentions and receiving no explanation even after Germania rises once more, brushing her hands off on her thighs.  
  
“…Not long. By noon’s time three days from now, be here. We shall be waiting.”  
  
Within his sandy-brown beard, the twitching of Hroerkr’s mouth as he suppresses further questioning is all too evident. After a moment, he simply sighs and nods his head in affirmation. “Right then. Until next we meet.” To the men still waiting around the ship he shouts some instructions, and soon enough they were rowing out once more, slipping further and further into the horizon.  
  
“Follow me,” Germania says, not wasting any time. “We’ll make camp further inland, then begin our search at daybreak.”  
  
Svíþjóð takes after her, the night too dark for him to see much beyond the dim outline of Germania’s body. She seems to be able to see well enough, though, and there is no hesitation in her stride. “D’we have far t’go?”  
  
The blackness around them only makes the small grunt Germania lets out that much clearer. “I’m not able to do anything so extraordinary as pin down an exact location…but who we are looking for is at least somewhere in the vicinity.” She remains silent as she leads them up a small incline into more wooded territory. “Our presence has probably already been noticed, on some level.”  
  
That makes sense to Svíþjóð-he can remember the strange sensation that had washed over him shortly before he and Germania had first met, like an added weight on a set of balanced scales subtly altering the equilibrium. He supposes it works the same for all their kind. Nothing gets said for a while until Germania finds a camping spot that meets her approval. This time, Svíþjóð does more of the work setting up the fire, and the hand she rests on his head once it flares up into life feels better than a thousand words of praise.

* * *

They spend much of the next day come morning walking around and exploring. Svíþjóð keenly feels the difference between this strange new place and his own lands. It’s flat for as far as the eye can see, and much closer to the water. The sounds are not the ones he is used to, nor the smells. It even feels a bit warmer, a natural consequence of the more southward territory.

He has time to notice this all because they don’t come across the slightest sign of the new personification they are searching for; despite looking as long as the light was out with only small breaks for water and a quick lunch of salted venison jerky. Svíþjóð is beginning to doubt the short time Germania gave the men to return for them will be enough, but his guardian doesn’t seem to be distressed in the slightest. There is nothing but the total calm of one who knows her goal, and the exact path to take to get to it. Svíþjóð mulls this over as he stares at the crackling fire that was his responsibility to start while Germania took care of acquiring their evening meal. After the long day they had, she told him something with more sustenance than what she already had on hand would be needed. So off the older woman went, leaving Svíþjóð with the flames and his own thoughts.  
  
The rustling of greenery, different from when caused by the wind, has him straightening up alertly. Germania emerges from the darkness, a clutch of three limp rabbits hanging from one hand.  
  
“Ah, it’s already flared up,” Germania notes, setting down a bow down to rest against a tree. “You learn quickly, little one.”

Placing the rabbits down, she pulls a very sharp knife out without ceremony and begins to skin the game. Svíþjóð’s stomach turns at the sight of the blood, nausea rising up. He still forces himself to watch, knowing well this is another thing that is important to learn. Germania is as taciturn as always, but something in the aside look she gives him says that he’s passed another test. Finally, the rabbits are fully skinned and quartered up, and Svíþjóð can breathe easily again.  
  
“Quite simple, but we can make do,” Germania says finally. The meat, now sprinkled with a few wild herbs, is placed on a stone resting in the center bend of the firepit, the heated rock functioning as a rudimentary cooking surface. Svíþjóð nods in response, tucking his knees under his chin as he watches the fire dance. 

Germania busies herself with cleaning up the mess from the skinning, tucking the furs away and wiping her hands of blood. The aroma of the rabbits cooking starts to slowly rise up in the air, rousing an appetite stronger than Svíþjóð realizes he had until now. His mouth is starting to water, but he does his best to sit quietly and remain patient.  
  
“A fire on wintry night…” Germania breaks the silence, to his surprise, though there is a softness to her voice that makes him wonder if she meant to do so. “It reminds me of the beginning of the nine worlds, heat against cold bringing forth existence.” She exhales, as if taking herself back to the here and now, and casts him a glance. “Do you know of it?”  
  
“No,” Svíþjóð tells her simply. There is an itch at the back of his mind like he does know and simply can’t recall the details, but he’s already learned to recognize this as what happens when one of his people has the experience of something but he doesn’t personally. It’s maddening, how much he has to learn still. “I don’t.”  
  
“Hn,” Germania grunts, checking on their meal. “The food still needs to cook, so I can spare the time. Come closer, Svíþjóð.” She waits as he scoots obediently towards her, secretly a little glad to partake of the security his guardian seems to naturally radiate. “This is important. Knowing your place in the nine worlds grounds you, and that is indeed a thing of value.”  
  
“It all comes down to cycles, little one. The world was destined to end from the second of its creation, in the great clash of gods and giants, just as it is destined to come around once more. This cycle started at two extremes, at the abyss at which lay the frosts and ice of Niflheim, opposite the burning heat of Muspellsheim. Two such different forces at work, and yet from them the first being was called into life, the _jotunn_ Ymir who is also called Aurgelmir.” Germania pauses even as Svíþjóð listens on with rapt attention, before continuing.  
  
“With him came the cow Audhumla, whose milk gave unto him sustenance. All the evil race of Giants spring from Ymir’s line, but this was offset by the life brought anew by the cow bringing forth Buri to life. He is the great ancestor of the Æsir, the gods Odin, Vili, and Ve are his grandsons. They were good and fair as the jotunn were wicked and hideous, and sought to end their evil by putting Ymir to death. All of the giants drowned in his death’s-blood but for the jotunn Bergelmir who escaped along with his wife. The kin of him managed to grow to great number and even now the giants and gods are at odds with one another, the bitterest of enemies.”  
  
“B’t what about t’world? Svíþjóð asks, unconsciously whispering in an attempt not to break the air of old truths Germania has woven.  
  
“It was made from the body of Ymir, so massive was he, the earth and sea and sky alike,” Germania tells him in the calm, binding voice of a bard. “His body is the lands we walk upon even now, his bones the mountains and stones, hair the trees and greenery, his skull the heavens above, and the maggots in his body became the race of Dwarves, who dwell still in the earth and have better relations with the Æsir than their giant cousins.”  
  
This makes sense to Svíþjóð-after all, it is exactly the same for him, so it Ymir was large enough surely the world could have sprung from him. He scoots closer, listening on with an eagerness he rarely feels. Germania clears her throat, going on.  
  
“At first, Buri’s grandsons were the only Æsir. But they grew bored with simply shaping nature, and so brought forth sentient life, men and animals. Embla and Ask, the first woman and man, were carved from the trees themselves. Odin who is the greatest of gods gave them the breath of life, Vili, soul, and last Ve, warmth and color. From them come the race of men…” Germania’s lips twitch the slightest bit, and he isn’t sure what to make of it. “…And by extension, us three.”  
  
Svíþjóð takes this all in before realization strikes. He doesn’t have a chance to say anything, though, before his guardian beats him to it.  
  
“You’ll be able to hear more clearly if you’re closer to the fire,” Germania states as calmly as if she was noticing the weather or time of day. Her forest green gaze is settled over a particular grouping of trees, one that Svíþjóð notices for the first time as being utterly quiet-unnaturally so, against the normal sounds of the forest. “And partake of the evening meal, besides. The rabbits shouldn’t be much longer.”  
  
There isn’t any response for a lengthy moment. Then, just as Svíþjóð was about to look to Germania for instruction, a child his own size steps out from behind the thickest tree and into the outer circle of light cast by the blaze. 

The flickering light suits the child, who has eyes the deep blue of a fire’s heart and shoulder-length hair of burnished gold, and who looks the same apparent age as himself, no more than three or four by a human’s reckoning. In all, a more vivid mirror to Svíþjóð’s lighter hair and aquamarine eyes stands before him, and they look enough alike to be taken for siblings. Though the other child seems wilder than Svíþjóð, with messy tufts of hair sticking up here and there, and darker, more defined brows.  
  
Those brows are knit in a sulky sort of scowl now, chin tilting in a defiant way. “You knew I was there the whole time, didn’t you. Why’d you pretend not to notice me?”  
  
“Because you would flee if I called you out, Danmǫrk,” Germania says mildly. “It seemed more sensible to wait for you to work up the nerve to reveal yourself and save myself the effort of chase.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have run!” Danmǫrk replies indignantly. “Running’s for cowards.”  
  
Germania leans back, one of her usual piercing stares directed Danmǫrk’s way. “And where does hiding behind a tree fall, pray tell?”  
  
Danmǫrk just looks more indignant at that, but the woman ignores the sputtering noises to keep talking. “Do you know why we’re here, little one?”  
  
The child fidgets in place at that, looking down. “…Dunno. You’re different from the people around here. I’ve never met anyone like me before.”  
  
“It’s lonely, isn’t it?” Germania asks rhetorically, twining her fingers together. “And difficult, because you are young and have no one to guide you, no one to help you figure things out. That is why I am here.”  
  
Danmǫrk’s stance is still guarded, but the expression Svíþjóð can barely make out in the dimness gives away plenty. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Come with me and Svíþjóð. I will teach you many things, help you grow and become strong,” Germania states clearly. “It is your choice.”  
  
Danmǫrk moves a little closer, though hesitantly so. “Will you tell more stories like that?”  
  
Germania nods. “Many, many more.”  
  
Indecision is plain on Danmǫrk’s face, and for a good moment the only sound in the clearing is of the fire burning and the distant noises of the night forest.  
  
“Does frowny-face have to be there too?” Danmǫrk finally asks, looking Svíþjóð’s way. His eyes narrow in response, and he directs a glare at the other child.  
  
“Get along with your brother,” Germania says sternly. “Family is important.”  
  
“Hmph,” Danmǫrk looks defiant again, arms crossed over each other. But it’s no match for Germania’s scolding expression. “Fine. May as well.” The child covers the last bit of distance to stand right before his guardian. “There something I gotta do?”  
  
“This is enough-” Germania begins, stopping midsentence as she takes Danmǫrk’s hand. The child gives her a blank look, and even Svíþjóð doesn’t know what is causing that worried look to flash in Germania’s eyes. “…again?”  
  
“What’s wrong?” Danmǫrk pipes up curiously.  
  
“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with, little one,” Germania answers distractedly. Her vivid eyes flick from Danmǫrk to Svíþjóð and back again. “You two are young, so it’s fine for now. As my sons, I will give you everything you need.”  
  
Danmǫrk makes a face at Svíþjóð when Germania turns away, but he is too busy wondering about the foreboding feeling that has come over him. There is something strange going on, something Germania isn’t telling them.  
  
“Sit next to Svíþjóð,” Germania tells the other boy as she pulls the rabbit meat out from the fire to let it cool. “We’ll eat and then I will finish telling the story to you.”  
  
Danmǫrk does as told, even if it is in a way that says he was going to do it anyway and he’s not letting Germania boss him around. Settling down next to Svíþjóð, he elbows him none too gently.  
  
“Frowny-face,” Danmǫrk whispers.  
  
“Loudm’th,” Svíþjóð mutters, and shoves back. Danmǫrk pushes in response, and Svíþjóð falls back harder than expected-

* * *

“ _Sví, Sví_ -” Danmǫrk hisses in as quiet a tone as he can manage while shaking him, not that that’s saying much. Svíþjóð looks blearily at his brother, the last vestiges of the dream of the past still swimming in his mind. Rubbing at his eyes, he stretches up within the small confines of the curtained bed he and Danmǫrk have shared within Germania’s longhouse for over seventy years now.

Seventy very long, noisy years, for which the brothers barely look any older, even if they have grown in other ways. They are clean, dressed well, fed enough. Even being taken under Germania’s wing hasn’t completely robbed Danmǫrk of the wildness he had when they first met, though.  
  
“Wh’t,” Svíþjóð says, or at least tries to say until Danmǫrk covers his mouth, holding a finger to his own lips for silence. Once he knows Svíþjóð isn’t going to keep talking, he pulls open the bed-curtain just the tiniest bit and gestures for him to look out. Curiosity roused by such uncharacteristically subtle behavior from his brother, Svíþjóð chances a glance only to be utterly surprised by what he sees. Germania sits by the firepit, but that isn’t anything out of the ordinary.  
  
What is unusual is the fact Germania is not alone. There is a woman with her, and not just any woman-a _Roman_ woman, clad in the polished armor of a centurion.

Svíþjóð can’t help his mouth falling open in shock-what kind of female walked around showing her legs in such a manner, even as dissolute as Germania made out all Romans to be. Especially given the woman’s looks, shapely body gloriously bronzed by the sun and dark, wavy hair with a few wild strands curling out framing a face too bold and confident to be called beautiful, but still rather handsome nonetheless. There is something magnetic about it, about the air of power and strength she radiates.

She is like them, Svíþjóð realizes. An embodiment of land and people and culture.  
  
 _Imperium Romanum_. The Roman Empire, the strongest of them all-  
  
“Gimme another, Germania,” Roma laughs boisterously as she drains the last of her drink, as easily as any man. “It’s been ages since I last had your mead!”  
  
“Were it still so,” Germania says flatly as she refills Roma’s tankard, and even someone who wasn’t experienced in reading her face like Svíþjóð could sense her annoyance. Except, apparently, Roma who merely laughs and slaps a hand to Germania’s back. “Don’t you have pressing matters to attend to?”  
  
“Trajan can handle things without me for a bit. He’s a capable man,” Roma smiles, deep brown eyes glowing in the firelight.  
  
“And here I believed it to be your policy to only have the mad and twisted ascend to the throne,” Germania ignores Roma’s almost theatrical pout and downs her own beverage.  
  
“Let off, it’s been a long century for me,” Roma sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I didn’t enjoy it any more than you did.”  
  
“Hn,” Germania grunts. “While it’s good for the rest of us you actually have an Emperor who isn’t insane in charge, was it really necessary for you to bring me the news yourself?”  
  
“Hellás didn’t mind. Or Kemet,” Roma replies, and something in her tone distinctly reminds Svíþjóð of Danmǫrk just before he did something to get them both into massive amounts of trouble. A harbinger of impending mischief. He can tell Germania notices it too, her stoic face gaining an edge of wariness.  
  
“So bother them and not me,” His guardian stiffens as Roma places a hand high up on her thigh, though Svíþjóð isn’t sure why. “Roma-”  
  
“But I wanted to see _you_ , Germania,” Roma says. “It’s been far too long.”  
  
“…kicked you out, did they?” Germania looks tenser by the second, and if that glare had been directed Svíþjóð’s way he would have been pinned to the spot like a mouse by the eyes of a snake. “And I’m going to tell you, Roma, that I won’t be won over now or ever. Move away your hand before you force me to break my vow of hospitality in a way you won’t enjoy.”  
  
“Ah, but you see…” Roma’s voice goes huskily soft, and both Svíþjóð and Danmǫrk lean forward to hear more clearly.  
  
Too far forward, as it happens. Danmǫrk is the first to fall over the edge of the bed, and the shriek he lets out when Svíþjóð lands on top of him, along with the crashing noise they both make upon hitting the floor has the adults spinning to the source of the commotion. Wincing, Svíþjóð rolls off of his brother only to feel an intense gaze upon him. Roma looks over them both, and those brown eyes that were so merry just moments before gleam with the hunger of conquest.  
  
“Why, hello there,” Roma greets them, a slight smile on her face that makes Svíþjóð feel very nervous directed their way. “So, Germania, when were you planning on sharing these two?”  
  
“Never, if I could manage it,” Germania intones bluntly. Roma merely laughs, crouching down to be closer to eye level with the two of them.  
  
“Aww, the little one in the blue even has your glare,” Roma coos, and for a moment it’s hard to believe this is the most powerful empire on earth before them. “What are your names?”  
  
“Svíþjóð and Danmǫrk,” Germania gestures to each of them in turn, caution written in her eyes. “My sons.”  
  
“…is that so?” Roma says in a strange tone. She stands up and exchanges one of those grown-up looks with Germania where plenty is said without a single word being spoken. Finally, she exhales and murmurs, “I hope you know what you’re doing here, Germania.”  
  
“You know perfectly well why I’m doing it,” Germania snaps tightly. “Remember how it was for us in our youth.”  
  
That strikes some sort of chord for Roma, who seems unable to work up a response to that. She merely shrugs after a moment, washing her hands of the business. “There will be…complications…in the future if you keep this up.”  
  
“And I’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Germania replies, and there is a note of finality in her voice that spares no room for argument. Roma just gives another shrug before turning back to the children who still look on, thoroughly in the dark as to the meaning of the conversation.  
  
“Well, it’s nice to meet such cute kids. I’m Imperium Romanum, but that’s kind of a mouthful so just Roma will do.” The Roman ruffles their hair with hands that are far stronger than they look, then gives a smile that is startlingly white against her tan skin. “Actually, meeting you two just reminded me…want to hear something good?”  
  
“Good by whose standards?” Germania mutters darkly behind her.  
  
“Oh, you’re going to want to hear this too, my stoic friend,” Roma chuckles. “After all, it’s never too early to think of getting wives for your sons. Although you’re going to have some very confused brides come-”  
  
“I don’t want a wife!” Danmǫrk wrinkles his nose, looking repulsed by the thought. “Girls are dumb.”  
  
Roma looks like she’s trying very hard not to burst into laughter, while Germania looks like she is trying very hard to not grab her axe and commit some grievous injury on Roma’s being. Svíþjóð decides to write it off as the eccentricity of beings whose ages do number in the high hundreds, and speaks up himself.  
  
“Th’re’s another l’ke us?” He asks, for that seems to be what Roma was getting at-and a girl, no less. He’s never met a girl of their kind his own age before, and can’t help but wonder what she’s like. “A g’rl?”  
  
Germania mercifully loses the expression of murder in her eyes, and seems to be thinking it over. “Where are you talking about, Roma?”  
  
“West of little Suecia here,” Roma genially replies. “There are some of your guys down in the south of her, but most of the territory is occupied by a people I’m not too familiar with. I guess that doesn’t really make her one of yours, but nonetheless she’s still there.”  
  
Svíþjóð glances at Danmǫrk, a little worried to see his usually rambunctious brother being so quiet. At least when he was loud, he was predictable. A quiet Danmǫrk is something he isn’t used to and doesn’t know how to handle. Neither of the adults seem to notice, engaging instead in a harsh, whispered conversation, so he takes it upon himself to get his brother back to a more normal state.  
  
“Dan,” Svíþjóð mutters, poking him in the side. His brother grunts and swats at him, but still doesn’t lose that thoughtful expression. “Dan, wh’t are y’thinkin’?”  
  
“Nothing, Sví,” Danmǫrk tugs at his ponytail, a sure sign he is plotting something. “Don’t be nosy.”  
  
“I w’n’t if y’don’t do anythin’ stupid,” Svíþjóð says pointedly. Danmǫrk sticks his tongue out at him, unnoticed by the still-talking Roma and Germania.  
  
“I’m _not_. I just remember, some of my people trade in that place west of you. That’s all.” Danmǫrk looks like he’s telling the truth-not that he’s ever been an especially skilled liar in the first place-but Svíþjóð doesn’t buy that as the extent of the matter.  
  
He’s proven right a few days after Roma has left, when he wakes up to find Danmǫrk gone the same day a boat of traders from his brother’s lands has taken leave. Germania looks as furious as he’s ever seen her, and Svíþjóð just hopes his brother finds whatever he risked her wrath to search for worth it.

* * *

It is fortunate that Svíþjóð happens to be near the docks a month later when a longship he last saw the same day his brother left pulls into port. It means he’ll have a chance to find out what possibly made Danmǫrk think that running off was a good idea before Germania gives him the thrashing of his life. It must have been something quite convincing-already he can hear his name being yelled over the sound of crashing waves, and spots his brother’s golden hair gleaming in the sunlight.

“Sví!! Sví!!” Danmǫrk shouts, hopping up and down impatiently. He all but bounces off the longship when the traders get it tethered down. “Come here, you gotta see-!”  
  
“Loudm’th.” Svíþjóð walks closer nonetheless, realizing even Danmǫrk wouldn’t be this worked up over nothing.  
  
“Frowny-face,” Danmǫrk replies automatically, before turning around to extend a hand to someone Svíþjóð can’t see. Finally, he moves aside to let a girl their own age step on the dock, and Svíþjóð can’t help but stare.  
  
She’s very pretty, just a little shorter than Danmǫrk with fine, pale blonde hair. It flows nearly her waist but for a single wayward curl that almost looks like it’s floating. The girl has refined, delicate features, with her small nose and rosebud mouth, but it’s somewhat offset by the disinterested look in her indigo eyes and lack of expression.

The girl glances at Svíþjóð, up and down, and he gets the distinct impression she’s withholding judgment on him. The truth is he’s at a loss on how to act around her, but figures at least being civil couldn’t hurt.  
  
“’m Svíþjóð,” he says, inclining his neck in a bow. “H’pe y’r journey was an e’sy one.”  
  
“…Noregr,” the girl says finally, but she looks a tiny bit less frigid. “And it would have been if I hadn’t had this idiot bothering me the entire way back.”  
  
“S’rry,” Svíþjóð tells her sincerely. “T’rest of us ar’n’t so bad.”  
  
“Hey!” Danmǫrk yells, although Svíþjóð can’t tell if it’s being ignored or insulted that bothers him more. “You n’ me and Sví are going to be a family from now on. We’ve got to get along!”  
  
“Then stop being annoying, _brother_ ,” Noregr crosses her arms, face not really changing but still somehow emitting an aura of irritation as Danmǫrk wraps her in a tight hug.  
  
“You called me brother!” Danmǫrk says happily, oblivious to the darkening air around her. Something deep within Svíþjóð urges him to step back, a primal survival instinct rearing its head. “That was so cute, do it again Nor!”  
  
“Let go now,” Noregr replies flatly. Svíþjóð wonders if it would be unmanly of him to run, or just sensible. “I won’t say it again.”  
  
Somehow, this response only makes Danmǫrk hug her tighter. Noregr huffs one little sigh before chanting under her breath, and even Svíþjóð can recognize the pulsing current of growing magical power. Danmǫrk does as well, but too late to do any good as the mists collate into a half-formed green troll, one that clearly expresses its mistress’ displeasure with one enormous fist to his head. Noregr flicks her fingers calmly, letting the summon dissipate and leaving Danmǫrk’s stunned form lying on the dock.

After a moment Svíþjóð checks on his brother, and some tiny part of him is relieved to see he isn’t even bleeding. Although it’s far eclipsed by aggravation that Danmǫrk would completely abandon his sense of self-preservation like that.  
  
“Brother, you’re annoying,” Noregr says monotonously, straightening out the billowing robes that Danmǫrk’s…affection…had rendered so askew. She pauses, looking into the distance. “Who is that scary looking blonde woman running this way?”  
  
“Oh crap, Germania!” Danmǫrk jumps up like he had never been hit in the first place, fear etched on his features. “I’ve got to leave or she’ll kill me!” Dashing over the men still unloading the longship he yells, “Guys, we need to pull out right n-grrkkk!!”  
  
“Ah, Danmǫrk,” Germania says in a dangerously calm tone, grip on the back of his tunic iron-hard. “Did you enjoy your trip?”  
  
His brother starts sweating nervously, and even Noregr takes a step or two back. Germania lifts up Danmǫrk with one hand, and gives her a polite nod. “Welcome, little one. Dinner will be in about three hours, so you’re free to play with Svíþjóð if he’s finished his chores already.”  
  
“Y…yes, I h’ve,” Svíþjóð says, wondering if Germania can smell the fear coming off them like the wolves in his forests. He wouldn’t put it past her.  
  
“Ah, good. Be home by sundown, then.” His guardian says, turning on her heel with Danmǫrk still in hand. “As for you, my son…”  
  
Svíþjóð and Noregr look after her as she walks away, then at each other.  
  
“So, that’s your mother?” Noregr finally asks, brushing a wayward strand of hair out of her face.  
  
“…Cl’se enough.” Svíþjóð concedes with a shrug. He still feels somewhat awkward around Noregr, but her straightforward manner is helping him relax. At least she isn’t giggly like the girls he sees around the village. “Y’ wanna look ‘round?”  
  
“Okay,” Noregr agrees, following him down the docks and back to the village. She hesitates, unnoticeably to anyone who wasn’t also possessed of as restrained a personality as Svíþjóð. “Brother…is he going to be punished harshly?”  
  
“Dunno,” Svíþjóð tells her. “B’t she’s n’t unfair.”  
  
This answer seems to be enough for Noregr, and the rest of the way passes in silence.

* * *

Despite such an inauspicious start, the three of them knit together surprisingly well. They share tongues and gods and more, and as times goes by they are all but inseparable. _Scandinavia_ , Roma calls the trio when she visits, always with laughter and presents no matter how disapproving Germania is. Which is to say, very.

Those first hundred years starting with the reign of the Emperor Trajan are good ones. Germania teaches them to ride, to hunt, to wield the sword and bow and axe. Of the Æsir and Vanir, the realms of Asgard and Midgard, of Ragnarøk. Though their bodies are still those of young children, and remain as such while the years trickle on by, they grow in other ways. Despite the limitations of their size, Svíþjóð and Danmǫrk can use arms with as much skill as any full grown man, and Germania rewards them for their diligence with swords specially forged with their small statures in mind.

Noregr learns warfare along with them, but her talents shine their brightest in the magical arts. Where it takes Svíþjóð considerable effort to do even something as simple as divination, the same task comes as easily to her as breathing. Danmǫrk displays even less sorcery ability than his brother, but takes it well enough and uses it as an excuse to be in Noregr’s company more. Svíþjóð isn’t sure why she doesn’t put more effort into making Danmǫrk actually go away considering how annoyed she often appears by his presence, and eventually writes it off as some mysterious girl-thing he will never understand.  
  
For all the knowledge they gain, in many ways their world is still so small, utterly restricted to the territory Roma calls _Magna Germania_. What news and goods they get from the lands outside that area always come from her, and when she tells them of new ones like them, Gallia, Hispania, Britannia-all girls-they listen with total attentiveness. Every time Roma brings them up, Svíþjóð feels the strangest, consuming urge to go and see for himself. All it takes is a single glance at Danmǫrk to see he has the same craving, and even Noregr in her own way seems intrigued.

But they are still bound to listen to Germania, and she is so staunchly against the idea none of them have the nerve to push her further. It’s a small thing, though, and the era that later generations would label _Pax Romana_ is always looked back at them with something like fondness. It is only a century of peace, but one that gives them the time to be children, at least for a little while. For their kind, that is a rare enough treasure.  
  
More than that, it hammers home a very important lesson-permanence doesn’t truly exist for them with their effectively limitless lifespans. The way Roma and Germania tend to argue and snap at each other more often than talk is just one of the many things that marks the changing era.

They quickly learn to not be around when the adults have what can only be called discussions in the barest sense of the word, and now is one of those times. They aren’t even in the longhouse Germania keeps on Svíþjóð’s lands, but the occasional shouting can be heard from inside. Uneasily, the trio passes a look between them.  
  
“They’re really being noisy,” Danmǫrk finally breaks the quiet they’ve been keeping, running his fingers carefully over the hilt of his sword. “Even Germania, and she _never_ yells.”  
  
There’s a loud crashing noise like a pot breaking, and it’s soon followed by Roma striding out. Her sunshine face is stormier than they’ve ever seen, and more than one tremor of fear runs through them as they duck out of her sight. In the weak light her armor gleams like a flash of lightning and promises war, and none of them dare to take a breath until she’s saddled on her warhorse and galloping out of sight. Danmǫrk slumps against the fence they’ve hidden behind as she falls out of sight, and even stoic Noregr brushes out her skirts anxiously.  
  
“I heard Roma’s emperor died, so it’s not surprising she’s upset…” Noregr comments, fingers still tangling in cloth. “But for it to be this bad-”  
  
“M’rdered. By h’s own m’n,” Svíþjóð corrects her, getting surprised looks from the other two. “Germania t’ld me. ‘Cause he n’goti’ted w’th her chieftains too e’sily like.”  
  
“No wonder they’re both mad,” Danmǫrk scratches his head, rending his hair even wilder, before taking a peek around the fence to the now silent longhouse. “Well, I ain’t going back there while she’s still in a mood.” Suddenly he brightens, bouncing up. “Hey, let’s go to the docks. The boats should have just come in, there might be somethin’ to see.”  
  
Without waiting for a reply from either of them he takes Noregr’s hand and starts dragging her off. Svíþjóð hears her sigh in annoyance but otherwise not resist, and figures he may as well follow too. At the pace they end up moving at, it isn’t long before the sound of rolling waters, sea birds, and men shouting orders to each other over the din reach their ears.

They go from boat to boat, greeting the sailors who come in on the ships, but see nothing they haven’t before. Still, it’s at least better than being near home now and their guardian’s anger. Eventually they tire of walking around, and sit on an incline some distance from the port. Noregr rummages around in the small satchel that is tied securely to her hip and pulls out some dried lingonberries that she passes to Svíþjóð, then Danmǫrk after waiting just long enough that his face was in serious danger of falling.

Svíþjóð can’t help but shake his head just the tiniest bit, thinking that girls really are mysterious, but the dried fruit is good so he doesn’t bother saying anything. They just sit there for a time, munching away and watching the play of ships and trading below. Svíþjóð’s eyes drift from the boats themselves to the water. Most the activity comes from south, where traders from Danmǫrk’s lands come up, along with those from the Germanic tribes and even some of Roma’s people. Growing bored, he turns his gaze eastward to the great, empty seas.  
  
And stills. There is a boat coming in from the east, one that he has seen before but never from that direction. He can distantly note Danmǫrk and Noregr staring at him oddly, but it’s completely overwhelmed by a tugging, pulling, _needing_ sensation that fills every part of him. There’s no question about it, no doubt-he _must_ go to the ship that came from across the eastern sea.  
  
“Sví? Whatcha looking at?” Danmǫrk asks, poking him. Svíþjóð doesn’t respond, even so simple an action beyond him now. Instead he stands, eyes still focused on the boat as he starts to make his way down. “Hey, wait up!”  
  
By the time he’s reached the pier Svíþjóð is practically running, beyond knowing or caring if Noregr and his brother have kept up. He swallows with a throat gone dry as he walks up to the boat that is being unloaded with what looks like finer furs than he’s ever seen.

One man stands around directing the others, and his face splits into a grin upon catching sight of Svíþjóð. Their association is a long one-Truvor is a direct descendant of Hroerkr who took him and Germania to Danmǫrk’s lands that first time two hundred years ago. He’s a massive man much like his distant grandfather, as reliable and steadfast as they come.  
  
“Ho there, my land,” Truvor rumbles, slapping a giant hand down on Svíþjóð’s shoulder. “I hope you’ve fared well as I have these days.”  
  
“W’ll enough,” Svíþjóð says quickly, wanting to get to the heart of the matter with an urgency that nearly burns with its strength. “Wh’re did y’just come fr’m?”  
  
Something of his need must be evident in his voice despite its normal monotony, for Truvor raises both of his thick brows before crouching down to put himself at eye level with Svíþjóð.  
  
“East, of course,” Truvor tells him, his tone calm and even. “We’ve been trading with the people who live across the water there for some time, didn’t you know?”  
  
Svíþjóð does, sort of, but he’s never really paid it much mind until now. Something just…feels different. He’s still at a loss for words by the time the pounding footsteps that signal Danmǫrk and Noregr’s arrival reach his ears.  
  
“Frowny-face, don’t just _run_ off like that-” Danmǫrk yells, face flushed with exertion. He kneels down, catching his breath while Noregr walks up at a more sedate pace though disapproval is readable on her cool features. Danmǫrk has straightened up by then, eyeing the boat curiously. “Hey, those are nice furs.”  
  
“The best,” Truvor states proudly. “And they should be, for what we went through to get them. The people of Finlandi, they’re quite strange.”  
  
“Finlandi?” Svíþjóð repeats, the word lyrical on his tongue. Something rushes through him, and at that second he _knows_.  
  
“Yes. Damn good hunters, but strange.” Truvor strokes his beard in recollection. “Remember one of ‘em telling me the world hatched from a bunch of eggs or some such thing. Eggs!” He shrugs, looking down at the children. “Lots of magic over there, maybe that’s why they’re a bit touched.”  
  
Noregr shows a spark of interest at that, but Svíþjóð doesn’t hear the question she asks Truvor over the pounding of blood in his ears. He’s never wanted anything as badly as this in his life, to go to this unknown land that calls to him like the sirens of Hellás’ tales-  
  
“-and they have this stringed instrument they use sometimes. I’ll pick one up for you when we go back a fortnight from now, if you like.” Truvor’s words have Svíþjóð’s head snapping up in attention, and the man lets out a barking laugh. “Or perhaps Svíþjóð here could get it for you, little Noregr. Y’want to come along with me and the men on our return trip?”  
  
Heat rises to Svíþjóð’s face at being put on the spot, but he nods quickly. Germania doesn’t usually mind when he goes off as long as he tells her first, and as long as he waits until she gets over her anger from Roma’s visit she should agree. No, Germania doesn’t concern him too deeply- on the other hand, Danmǫrk, eyeing him with more thoughtfulness than he’s used to seeing from his brother, does.  
  
“You wanna go awfully bad, Sví,” Danmǫrk tilts his head, peering at him. “Why?”  
  
“Jus’ do,” Svíþjóð mumbles, not sure or really wanting to explain to Danmǫrk just what was fueling his desire to go to Finlandi. He just needs to, the same way his people need air and food. There’s no fighting it. But even if he doesn’t totally understand it, he definitely doesn’t want his noisy brother tagging along. A moment’s furious thought reveals a solution soon enough. “S’ppose y’could come. Nor’d pr’bably enjoy t’quiet-”  
  
“Nah, you just tell me how it is when you come back,” Danmǫrk says hastily, evidently valuing the idea of having Noregr all to himself more than seeing what had Svíþjóð so worked up. Having made peace with this, he snickers and tugs on Svíþjóð’s short ponytail. “’Sides, if they’re as weird as Truvor says, you’ll fit right in.”

Svíþjóð scowls and bats his brother’s hand away, but lets it go this one time. Better to do that than raise a fuss and risk Danmǫrk insisting on following. When he brings up the subject to Germania later that night, she agrees to let him go after a strangely tense moment. Why she looks so…worried, he doesn’t know, but he’s too pleased to have free rein to go to bother himself with it like he normally would.

The next two weeks pass so slowly it feels they’ll never be over, but finally the day comes where Svíþjóð stands at the docks with a cloak thrown over his usual ensemble of tunic, breeches and boots, his sword sheathed and belted at his side. The impatience he feels as Truvor’s men load up the ship with goods is nearly overwhelming, but he does his best not to show it.  
  
“Hey, Sví!” The loud voice that could only be his brother’s stands in stark contrast to the normal noises of the pier. He turns and sees Danmǫrk wave at him as he walks over, Noregr trailing after him.  
  
“Wh’t?” Svíþjóð asks, a little surprised to see him there. He didn’t think it particularly important to Danmǫrk to see him off.  
  
“Just making sure you’re actually leavin’,” Danmǫrk grins, to which Svíþjóð responds with a lidded gaze. Noregr rolls her eyes at the both of them, before yanking Danmǫrk back by his ponytail.  
  
“Brother, don’t be so annoying, or _I’ll_ go too,” Noregr tells him flatly. She pulls out something from her hip pouch and holds it out to Svíþjóð, ignoring the injured look Dan casts her way. “Here, Sví. Just in case.”  
  
Svíþjóð accepts the Mjöllnir amulet, feeling the tingle of magical protection imbedded in the silver metal of the hammer even as he slips the leather thong it hangs on over his neck. “Th’nks…but why?”  
  
“It can’t hurt, when you’re traveling in a new place,” Noregr exhales, the smallest of smirks flitting across her face. “Not to mention if you die, that leaves me alone with this idiot.”  
  
“Norrrrrrrr!!!” Danmǫrk whines piteously, pulling her into an embrace. Svíþjóð turns away to look at the progress on the longship, not needing to see the predictable way this would end. The wooden slats of the pier groan as Truvor jumps down from the boat onto them before striding over to where Svíþjóð waits.  
  
“We’re just about ready here, my…Land…” Truvor stares past Svíþjóð, to where Noregr is prying his brother off her via a liberal application of troll-force, judging from the noises. The burly man looks on a second longer before pinching at his brow. “Well, I guess you are all at that stage.”  
  
“Hn?” Svíþjóð asks, not understanding Truvor’s knowing look.  
  
“Never mind,” Truvor brushes the question off, though he still appears amused. “Let’s go while the light’s good.” He walks back to where the plank is set up, and Svíþjóð follows him with a feeling of growing anticipation. Settling down on one of the seats next to him, he gives a small wave of his hand to the duo on the docks, even if only Noregr is actually conscious to see it.  
  
The day passes in with the rowing of heavy oars and the salty spray of the sea-not for the first time, Svíþjóð regrets his size makes him useless for helping out with the more labor intensive aspects of water travel. Physically, he’s only matured a few years in all the time he’s been under Germania’s care, and looks no older than six much like Danmǫrk and Noregr.

He wonders how much of that has to do with their dependency on her, but it doesn’t bother him much except at times like these where he can’t pull his own weight. It goes against his character, to not be industrious. He passes the time wood-carving a small horse. He’s quite proud with the detailing on it, from the saddle and reins to the hooves and even the mane, but it still lacks something to him. He might paint it later, given the chance.  
  
Even without him contributing, the strength of the men and the favorable winds allow them to make land on an island Svíþjóð has never seen before, and feels is not a part of him. Strangely though, he can sense the presence of a number of his people. Settlers, perhaps?  
  
“Ahvaland,” Truvor tells him as they step off the boat, breaking for the night. “It’s a good stopping point between you and Finlandi. Makes the trip less of a trial.” He pauses like he’s thinking carefully about how to phrase his next words. “I’m surprised you aren’t more aware of it.”  
  
“Why?” Svíþjóð asks him, the impatience he’s still feeling somewhat dampened by awareness that what Truvor is saying is quite important.  
  
“Two-sided blade, my Land. It’s convenient, to be sure, but if someone wanted to strike at you from the sea, wouldn’t this be a good place to do it from?” Truvor points out sagely.

Svíþjóð’s eyes widen at that-being under Germania’s wing all this time, he’s never even thought about outside attack. It’s such an abstract concept to him, but one that causes him to toss and turn the whole night restlessly. At least the next morning Truvor doesn’t comment when he sees the shadows under his eyes, and he ends up nodding off to sleep despite the sunlight as they push away from Ahvaland.  
  
He doesn’t know how many hours pass; just that Truvor’s large hand stirs him out of the slumber he had missed so sorely the previous night. Svíþjóð yawns a little, blinking sleepily before alertness hits him hard and fast. They’re finally there, at Finlandi’s shores.

It’s an effort to remain calm, even as he stares hungrily at the landscape. Heavily forested and green, more so than his own territory, and the settlement they’ve docked at smaller than he expects from a trading post. Svíþjóð looks around curiously, taking in the unfamiliar sights, listening to the sounds of a language he doesn’t recognize. It’s strange to his ears, but nearly musical at the same time.  
  
“Can I assume you aren’t planning on sticking around with us?” Truvor asks him as they stride on the wooden slats of the pier. Svíþjóð nods, gesturing to the pack on his back. It’s fully stocked with just about everything he needs to survive comfortably in the wilderness, and Germania has raised him to be an able woodsman. Even in this new land, he would not have a hard time of things by himself.  
  
At that, Truvor merely scratches at his jaw, continuing, “Well, just be back before two weeks’ time, lest we be forced to leave without you.”  
  
“I kn’w-” Svíþjóð begins, but what he was going to say next vanishes along with every other thought in his head the second his feet leave the deck and touch the earth of Finlandi. The embodiment of these lands is out there, close enough he can feel it, and Svíþjóð realizes he’ll search for a thousand years if that’s what it takes.  
  
“Svíþjóð! Svíþjóð!!” Truvor’s shaking him by the shoulders, expression alarmed. Svíþjóð blinks at him, his mind still somewhat muzzy from the sensation that had just overwhelmed him.  
  
“Wh’t?” He asks the larger man, seeing the alarm fade away into disbelief.  
  
“…‘What’, that’s all you have to say for yourself?” Truvor looks exasperated, but at least lets him go. “My land, you’ve been just standing there staring off at nothing for some time now! I thought you had been taken with something.”  
  
“S’rry. ‘s…hard t’explain.” Svíþjóð fidgets with the hem of his tunic, unsure of how to put what he had just experienced in a way a human would understand. It doesn’t really help he that he doesn’t really _want_ to. He doesn’t want to share something so personal. “’m fine. Th’t’s enough.”  
  
Truvor sighs, but mercifully doesn’t pursue it. “If you say so, Svíþjóð. Two weeks, remember.”  
  
“R’ght,” Svíþjóð says, more for the look of thing. There’s no way he can leave this land without meeting its personification beforehand, but Truvor doesn’t need to know that.  
They walk together a ways until they reach the very edge of the settlement. Svíþjóð tries to put where the mental weight had been heaviest on a map-that was where Finlandi would be. East, definitely…and a little southwards…  
  
“So, what you’re looking for is that way?” Truvor chuckles at the way Svíþjóð’s face goes red, and crouches down. “Well, I can tell you this much, you at least will be able to find your way back if you follow the river. Aathra, we call it. It’s the one that flows out to the sea here.”  
  
Svíþjóð considers this-from where they are he can even hear the sound of water running. It’s a sensible suggestion and works with his plans well enough, so he’ll do as the man suggests. “I w’ll, th’nks. Good luck w’th y’r tradin’.”  
  
“And with your quest as well,” Truvor tells him amiably. He pauses, patting Svíþjóð on the head in an almost fatherly way despite the fact he’s at least eight times Truvor’s age. “Keep your head on straight, my Land. Don’t give Germania a reason to come after mine.”  
  
A smile flits across Svíþjóð’s face for a second at that. “Don’t w’rry. Jus’ wait an’ Dan’ll do somethin’ w’rse.”  
  
Truvor practically roars with laughter before taking his leave with a wave. Svíþjóð responds in kind, before turning to make his way down to the river. It’s a great thing, its slow currents hiding a deceptive amount of force. Rather lulled by the sight of it, Svíþjóð gazes on for a while longer before setting off.  
  
All things considered, he makes good time. It is early morning when he first begins his trek, and aside from a few small breaks for rest and food here and there Svíþjóð has been continuously moving all day. The sun is already starting to set by the time he starts thinking about finding a place to camp out for the night when he hears the music.  
  
It’s enough to make him halt right in place, ears straining to find the source. It’s powerful, to combat his compulsion to keep traveling on, but though he cannot understand the words it is still the most entrancing singing he has ever heard. A man’s singing, judging from the deep and powerful bass of the voice. Utterly mesmerized, he trails in the direction it seems to be coming from until he finds himself in a wide clearing surrounded by birch trees.

A man sits on the stump of one, old and white-bearded yet somehow more vigorous and strong than his age would suggest. In his hands he holds a stringed instrument of a kind Svíþjóð doesn’t recognize, and he strums it skillfully in time with his magnificent singing. Svíþjóð isn’t the only one appreciating the bard’s playing-even the birds in the trees are silent and watching, and he can spot hares and other woodland creatures hidden in the brush listening.  
  
The man stops his playing abruptly, and looks over at Svíþjóð, evidently noting his presence for the first time. He gazes at him, eyes revealing nothing before he smiles slightly and rests the instrument on his knee.  
  
“Joku on täällä?” The bard says in a tongue Svíþjóð doesn’t understand. Upon receiving a lost look from him, the man sighs and mumbles something under his breath that makes the air prickle with magic. “Well, I can see you aren’t from around here.”  
  
“N-no,” Svíþjóð replies awkwardly, feeling rather vulnerable under the man’s stare. He isn’t of the same ilk as Svíþjóð, but there’s no way the being before him is an ordinary human. His eyes are far too old for that.

Still, Germania’s lessons on respect for elders has been drilled mercilessly into him, so he tries to be polite. “Y’r singin’ w’s…” He flushes, a little embarrassed to say it. “…amazin’.”  
  
“Thank you, little one,” the bard tells him, shifting on the stump. “It’s not often I get to play for one of your kind.”  
  
That definitely catches Svíþjóð’s attention, but he’s not sure how to get the man’s meaning outright from him. Instead he asks, “Wh’t is it y’r playin’?”  
  
“Ah, this? A kantele, my small friend.” He strums it once, lets the notes rise and fade up into the air. “Birch-wood and the golden hair of a maiden. Quite a ways from pike-bone, hm?” He laughs as if at some secret memory, though Svíþjóð isn’t privy to why. Neither of them speaks for a moment, though the man plays idly with the strings of his kantele to fill the clearing with music like a half-remembered dream.

Svíþjóð isn’t familiar with the customs of Finlandi, but knows at least back in his lands there are obligations one owes to the services of bards. He has Roman coins, and a little gold besides that, but it somehow feels inappropriate to simply give the man money. Not for miserliness, but rather because his playing is so wonderful it deserves something unique in turn. He bites his lip, one thing rising to his head as close to proper as he could manage, although he doesn’t quite think it good enough.  
  
No matter. Forcing down his nervousness, Svíþjóð reaches into his pack and lets his fingers close around the item he seeks. Pulling out the horse he had carved earlier, he presents it to the bard and hopes the heat building on his face isn’t too obvious.  
  
“H’re. F’r t’song.” Svíþjóð holds it out to him, a little awkwardly. The old man blinks and takes it carefully after a pause, examining the carving. Svíþjóð bows his head down, feeling more and more embarrassed with every second that passes, and thinks he has made a mistake. Then the bard smiles gently, and it eases some of the tension.  
  
“It’s a wonderful piece. You have a gift, little one.” The man strokes his long white beard, smoothing it down. “But it’s more tribute than just that snippet of a song requires.”  
  
Svíþjóð opens his mouth to protest that’s not that case, and if anything that song deserves more. But those wise, dark eyes light up from within, and the bard slaps a hand on his knee. “I know, how about your fortune told? That would make it an even trade.”  
  
The boy nearly issues a modest denial anyway when the thought this could help him find Finlandi faster strikes him. Svíþjóð takes a moment to work up the courage, but finally says, “C’n y’help me find somethin’ ’m lookin’ for?”  
  
“A bit more specific than a general reading, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” the bard issues with total confidence. “There’s an alder tree just a little west of here. Break off a small branch and bring it to me.”  
  
When Svíþjóð returns with the branch, the old man pulls out a knife and slices the wood into slender pieces. He lays them out, long fingers turning the pieces here and there. His eyes are half-shut as he does so, but distant like their owner’s attention is elsewhere. Finally, he looks down at the pieces strewn about the grass before him and examines them closely.  
  
A frown creases the bard’s forehead, and it only deepens as he studies the pieces more. Svíþjóð waits with bated breath, anxiety starting to well up forcefully. Why was such a dark look being cast across the bard’s face? With each passing second some mysterious mix of concern, apprehension, and something else Svíþjóð couldn’t quite name draws itself deeper onto the old man’s countenance. It is all very strange, but before Svíþjóð can ask him what is wrong, the bard speaks up.  
  
“This was…definitely not what I expected. But my word is my word.” A gaze that feels like his soul is being stripped down piece by piece is sent his way, and Svíþjóð tries to remain composed despite the urge to shiver. “One thing, first. Why are you searching for my Land?”  
  
Svíþjóð swallows, not bothering to ask how the bard knew exactly what he was looking for. But there is clearly no avoiding an answer, even when all he can come up with feels so very inadequate.  
  
“I…I jus’ need t’. Like y’need t’breathe ‘r eat ‘r rest,” Svíþjóð says to him plainly. “Th’t’s t’truth of it.”  
  
The reaction he gets to this is confusing, to say the least. The old man covers his face with one hand, obscuring his expression, and makes a noise Svíþjóð can’t discern as a laugh or a sigh. To say he feels lost is understating things, but he forgets about it once the bard speaks up again.  
  
“You need to follow the river, until you see three herons by the banks. When you do, cross the waters and head north-east into the forest. You’ll find what you seek there.” Another penetrating look. “I can’t promise what will happen beyond that, little one.”  
  
Svíþjóð inclines his head respectfully, nearly to a bow. “Th’nk y’...” he pauses, realization striking. “Wh’t was y’r name, Bard?”  
  
Silence. He looks up, only to see the clearing completely empty. Down to the slivers of the branch being gone, it’s as if he was alone from the start. This time, he doesn’t bother to hold back the tremble that runs through him, and he rubs the Mjöllnir amulet around his neck for reassurance. He’s grateful for the reading, certainly, but it still seems like a good idea to find somewhere else to make camp for the night.

* * *

 

The day is bright and clear when he sets out, something Svíþjóð takes as a good sign. Even if the mysterious bard hadn’t told him just how long following the river until he found the herons would take, it feels good to have at least some direction. Though he is careful to keep his attention to the river as he walks, Svíþjóð lets himself relax a bit more than before to really take in the land around him for the first time.  
  
What he realizes before anything else is how spread out things are. In his own lands, or even his brother’s, there would have been many settlements close to one another near such good territory. Svíþjóð knows the value of a river, food and transport and fertile soil for planting all in one. As he travels he sees the elements of dwellings here and there, but the distance between these is still considerable. If it is like this throughout the whole of the land, it may go a long way explaining why Finlandi has never really drawn his attention until this point.  
  
He’s lucky, in that respect. Germania’s rearing of him gave him something like unity, or close enough to it amongst his people. Spread out so thin like this, Svíþjóð can’t help but think it’ll cause Finlandi trouble someday. It’s just one of the things he’s left to contemplate as he journeys and the day passes without even the feather of a heron crossing his path. He makes a meal of salmon from the river that night as he camps, and does his best not to feel discouraged.  
  
The river starts getting noticeably rougher as he progresses the next morning, the current moving with greater power. By the time high noon arrives there are white froths of water here and there signaling the nearby presence of rapids. Taking a break under the shelter of an alder tree, Svíþjóð munches on some dried meat and contemplates what to do next. He glances at the river, still chewing, when he hears the sound of wings over the rushing water.

Heart nearly stopping in his chest, Svíþjóð watches unblinkingly as a heron drifts down to the bank with a graceful drifting motion. As it picks here and there at the water, another falls down next to it. Svíþjóð doesn’t even register how hard he’s shaking by this point, nor anything at all but for the birds at the river. When the third heron joins the other two, he lets out the breath he was holding in the entire time, his starved lungs desperately taking in air. Shoving his rations back into his pack, Svíþjóð shoulders it before making a run for the riverbank.  
  
His approach frightens the birds away, leaving him alone. Svíþjóð pays it no mind, though, staring intently at the waters. The problem of the strong current he noted earlier still remains, without any real means of crossing. Although if there really hadn’t been any way to cross, wouldn’t the bard have mentioned it?  
  
It’s then he spots the cropping of rocks a little further up. They’re more concentrated towards the southern bank of the river than the northern, but they’re large and flat, perfect for standing on.

 Seeing no other way, Svíþjóð takes a flying leap to the one closest to him, nearly slipping off the slick surface and into the river until he regains his balance at the last second. This aside, it’s not too challenging to hop the stones, one after another, until he finds himself on the bank’s other side. Wiping his face dry from the sprays of river-water it has encountered, he spots a gathering of trees in the distance. Figuring this could only be the forest the bard had referenced, Svíþjóð makes his way towards it.  
  
It seems to him what Finlandi lacks in settlements it makes up for in greenery. As Svíþjóð walks through the veritable sea of pale birch the forest consists of, he thinks he’s never seen so many trees so close together in his life. Fortunately, it makes the traveling comfortable-the leaves and branches provide a thick canopy of shade, and it’s cool and quiet compared to the river banks. It would actually be rather pleasant if Svíþjóð hadn’t been put so on edge from keeping an eye out for Finlandi and unfriendly wildlife.  
  
A change in scenery becomes noticeable after roughly an hour of walking. The trees are thinning out, and as if to make up for it Svíþjóð sees more and more small, bell-shaped white flowers. He doesn’t know nearly as much about that sort of thing as Noregr, but he can appreciate their ephemeral prettiness all the same. There’s a large break in the trees nearby indicating a clearing, and he can see plenty of the flowers in the light streaming in. Interest piquing, Svíþjóð walks slowly toward it, pausing occasionally to sniff at the flowers.  
  
When Svíþjóð enters the glade, time stops. Everything around him is so muted as to be nonexistent, and the only thing in the world that exists for him is the presence that weighs upon his soul heavier than a mountain.  
  
A petite girl appearing only a year or two younger than him stands there in the clearing, garbed in a white tunic layered over a dress of palest blue. Her hair, the same ash-blonde of birch-wood, is braided into two slim plaits that fall a little past her dainty shoulders. The color compliments large violet eyes set in a sweetly gentle face. Lit by the sunshine as she is, the child practically glows like a star.

Without a doubt, she is the most beautiful girl Svíþjóð has ever seen.

No matter what comes to pass, he will never forget this moment. Never. It's carved into his soul now, as much a part of him as his rivers and forests and mountains. 

Svíþjóð would have been happy to stay like this forever, but the girl herself breaks the spell she wound over him. Upon catching sight of him she lets out a tiny gasp, the basket full of herbs she holds falling to the ground with a thud. The gathered meadowsweet spills over her feet, but the girl pays it no mind as she and Svíþjóð stare at each other. A strained silence fills the glade, one that the soft ambient noises of the forest do nothing to dispel.  
  
“Y’u Finlandi?” Svíþjóð eventually asks in a desperate attempt to break the quiet, though he immediately curses himself for phrasing it so brusquely. For possibly the first time in his life, he wishes he is Danmǫrk. Regardless of his numerous faults, his brother never has trouble making conversation, or getting people to like him-  
  
“F-finlandi?” The girl repeats in a voice as pretty as she is, albeit colored with confusion.  
  
“’s wh’t my people call y’,” Svíþjóð mutters, feeling his ears start to warm with embarrassment.  
  
“Oh. Um, well, Suomi is my name-” she quails heavily for some reason when she looks at him, before finishing in a rush. “B-but if Finlandi is e-easier for you then it’s alright!”  
  
Svíþjóð nods at that, and sees Finlandi’s tense shoulders relax as she lets out a relieved sigh. He isn’t sure why she was so on edge, but he supposes it doesn’t matter if she’s fine now. As she bends down to pick up her fallen herbs, she casts another glance his way. Her arms are full by the time she straightens up, sending a radiant if slightly shy smile at him.  
  
“So…what’s your name, then?” Finlandi inquires, and it takes Svíþjóð a moment to get over being dazzled enough to reply.  
  
“’m Svíþjóð. Fr’m over t’water west,” Svíþjóð bows courteously, sneaking another gaze in at her as he does so.  
  
“Svíþ… Svíþjoth… Suíþjóth…” Finlandi stumbles over the pronunciation, her cheeks growing pink as she fails to get it right. It’s charming, to say the least. “Um…is a little shorter okay? Sve?”  
  
He supposes she’s aiming for Sví, with her accent muddling the last part a bit, but he doesn’t mind at all from her. “…’s fine.”

Finlandi’s face lighting up in response has Svíþjóð’s heart pounding like a drum, and he turns his head to hide his dark flush.  
  
“Sve…ah, you must be the one my people call Ruotsi!” Finlandi claps her hands together in understanding. “They trade with you, I think.”  
  
“Y’h. Came over w’some of ‘em,” Svíþjóð says. He’s trying, really he is, but it’s hard to make conversation when Finlandi’s cuteness is so distracting. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to need much prompting to talk.  
  
“Really? I’ve never left my own lands before,” she chirps. “Or met another…um, like we are.”  
  
“Y’ wanna?” Svíþjóð latches on to her last statement, seeing opportunity.  
  
“H-huh?” Finlandi tilts her head, those deep violet eyes widening.  
  
“Meet m’re l’ke us,” Svíþjóð tells her. “B’ck in m’lands.”  
  
“Oh…I…” Finlandi bites her lip, looking terribly indecisive. “I don’t…my chieftains wouldn’t like it-”  
  
She stares at the hand Svíþjóð has managed to summon the daring to hold out to her, voice cutting off.  
  
“C’me w’th me,” Svíþjóð says, keeping his tone steady even as nervousness eats at him. “Y’ shouldn’t be all al’ne here.”  
  
Finlandi’s dainty fingers twitch like she wants to move them, but she’s still otherwise.  
  
Desperately, Svíþjóð adds, “Y’ can c’me b’ck, aft’r all.”  
  
The tension hangs thin and brittle in the air, and Svíþjóð’s arm is starting to go numb from holding it up so long. His throat has grown dry with anxiety, but he does nothing about it. All he can do for now is wait for Finlandi’s answer.  
  
Something small and soft brushes against Svíþjóð, and he looks down to see Finlandi’s hand resting tentatively against his own. It’s warm as he clasps his fingers around hers, a little tighter than he means to in his joy.  
  
“I’m not well traveled, so I’ll have to rely on you,” Finlandi says with a tiny smile. “Please be patient with me, Sve.”  
  
He’ll go to Niflheim and back if she asks it of him. “S’re. I’ll take c’re of y’.”

* * *

The look Truvor gives Svíþjóð as he leads Finlandi up to the docks a week and a half later is part amused, part knowing, and completely embarrassing to be subjected to. The one bright spot is Finlandi being far too busy taking in the sights of the warf with wide eyes, looking almost overwhelmed, to notice it.

“Well, well,” The trader chuckles as he loops up a thick rope with ease. “I can see why you were so desperate to come here, my Land.” Svíþjóð blushes furiously, face burning with heat. “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she?”  
  
“What did he say?” Finlandi asks him, staring timidly up at Truvor. Even knowing perfectly well the man means her no harm, Svíþjóð still stands protectively in front of her. By this point, it’s instinct.  
  
“Jus’…” He starts, but he can’t bring himself to translate the rest to Finlandi’s face, the one action that could possibly fluster him even more than he was now. “…’s not imp’rt’nt. N’me’s Truvor. He’ll be takin’ us b’ck.”  
  
“Ah…he’s the trader you came over with, then?” Finlandi’s dress swishes as she drops into a graceful bow. “It’s nice to meet you…” Her voice trails off, cheeks going rosy. “Um…Sve…”  
  
“I’ll tell h’m for y’,” Svíþjóð reassures her. Glancing at Truvor, whose enjoyment at the scene before him is only becoming more obvious by the second, he coughs purposefully before translating. “This h’re’s Finlandi. Says it’s n’ce t’ meet y’.”  
  
“It’s my pleasure, little miss.” A shout from further down the dock has Truvor turning back to one of his men gesturing for attention. “Hn, looks like we should be off soon enough. Wait here until then, you two.”  
  
Finlandi watches him as he leaves, the breeze from the sea softly stirring her hair. Svíþjóð watches her out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be obvious about it.  
  
“It looks like they’re going to be ready soon, right?” Finlandi finally speaks up, knitting her fingers together in a nervous way.  
  
“Y’h,” Svíþjóð grunts, unease rolling through him. He prays it’s just the anxiety of an unknown experience causing Finlandi to act like this now, and not real fear. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she changes her mind about coming. “…Y’ a’right?”  
  
“W-what? Of course, I’m fine, I’m fine!” Finlandi tells him, a little too hastily to be convincing. “It’s just…all new to me.”  
  
Svíþjóð stands there awkwardly, fumbling for the right thing to say, for something that would ease Finlandi and have that beautiful smile lighting up her face again. It’s… _important_ , for her to be happy. Nothing he can think of comes close to being good enough, but she’s looking at him like she’s waiting for a response, and it’s not like he can just leave it like that.  
  
“Don’ worry. Won’ let anythin’ bad h’ppen t’ya,” Svíþjóð mutters for lack of anything better. Finlandi blinks, and something in her expression tells of confusion. But then she smiles at him-a little one, but genuine, and he promptly forgets to pursue the matter.  
  
“Thank you, Sve,” Finlandi plays with one her braids, but she seems calmer. “I’m lucky to have you to rely on.”  
  
Svíþjóð is in serious danger of melting on the spot, but Truvor’s booming voice snaps him out of it just in time.  
  
“My Land! You and the young miss, get aboard! It’s time for us to be off!”  
  
On the whole, the trip goes well once Finlandi acquires her sea legs…and gets over her seasickness. She’s more embarrassed over the matter than anything, and her spirits return quickly enough. It’s a good sign to Svíþjóð, though he is slightly disappointed to lose an excuse to rub her back soothingly.  
  
“It’s the waves,” she tells him as Ahvaland they spent the night at recedes in the distance. “Up and down, up and down-” Finland stops herself, expression going a little queasy just thinking about it.  
  
“S’rry,” Svíþjóð says, though she waves it aside.  
  
“Don’t apologize for stuff that’s not your fault.” Finlandi taps her chin, deep in thought before she smiles enthusiastically. “If it’s just the waves, they should invent an underwater boat!”  
  
“Und’r…w’ter…?” Svíþjóð repeats, trying to wrap his mind around it and failing.  
  
“Yes!” Finlandi seems to be on a roll, oblivious to his bewilderment. “Just like fish. Or you could maybe do it like a clam, just add a top half on to seal everything in-” She curves her hands in a mimicking gesture, flapping them open and shut. “Painted green with white and purple curls, of course.”  
  
“Why?” Svíþjóð asks after a moment’s effort of making sense of Finlandi’s rambling and failing. It’s kind of amazing, both the sheer randomness of it all and that something he would find silly in anyone else is just adorable from her.  
  
“So it’ll sail better,” Finlandi states in a matter of fact manner. She closes her eyes and sighs happily, clearly visualizing it. “I’d call it… _Yellow October Nautilus_.”  
  
A response to that eludes Svíþjóð completely. Finlandi blushes at his staring, pressing the tips of her index fingers together.  
  
“The name…” Finlandi starts, and Svíþjóð can feel a bead of nervous sweat on his neck. “…should I think of a more elegant one?”  
  
“…’s f’ne,” he manages. Svíþjóð can’t follow Finlandi’s thought process at all, and her names are…very unique. But he supposes it’s harmless enough. Even if they could build something as outlandish as an underwater boat, who would take the risk of stirring Jǫrmungandr beneath the blue-black waves?  
  
The entire voyage back passes in more or less this fashion, with Finlandi chatting and Svíþjóð listening while occasionally making short contributions of his own. It is nice, that Finlandi doesn’t mind supplying the bulk of the conversation, and that she doesn’t press him to talk as so many try to. It feels right. Unfortunately, Svíþjóð gets a little too lost in his own happy world, and ends up forgetting to keep an eye out for the person most likely to break it.  
  
It’s his own fault, really. He’s just finished helping Finlandi down from the longship, and as a consequence barely detects the approaching presence in time to dodge. Considering just how noisy it is, that alone is a testament to his level of distraction.  
  
“Sví!!!” Danmǫrk laughs boisterously, easily correcting his balance for Svíþjóð’s unexpected movement. “Back so soon? Wouldn’t have minded if you stayed, you know-”  
  
Svíþjóð moves to hide Finlandi from view, but it’s already too late. Danmǫrk stares at the small girl with wide eyes, his jaw dropping a bit. “No way, another Land? A girl?” As if he can’t quite believe she’s there, he pokes her cheek with his finger.  
  
“O-ohyaaa-!” Finlandi flinches, scooting back. “W-who are you?”  
  
Danmǫrk ignores the question, poking her again. A rare, intense rage is starting to overcome Svíþjóð, but luckily for his brother someone visits him with a somewhat less violent retribution before he has a chance. With a loud splash, the floating troll summon drops Danmǫrk into the water. Noregr doesn’t even spare him a glance as she walks down the dock, but the cold irritation on her face is clear enough.  
  
“Welcome back, Svíþjóð,” Noregr says, and something in her tone tells him she’s a little put out with him too. “You could have mentioned her, you know.”  
  
“W’sn’t sure I’d find her,” Svíþjóð mutters back. While this is true, it’s not the reason Svíþjóð hadn’t said anything to Noregr or his brother. At the heart of it is the fact he had wanted to keep Finlandi’s existence all to himself, no matter how impossible a goal that actually was. But he’s not so foolish as to tell Noregr such a thing. In a louder voice, he continues, “Finlandi, this’s m’neighb’r Noregr. T’idiot in t’water is m’brother, Danmǫrk.”  
  
“Um…hello,” Finlandi says, her smile uncertain. It gains more strength as she adds, “I’ve never seen such a good evocation before.”  
  
“…Thank you.” Noregr looks Finlandi up and down, assessing her. “I’ve heard there’s a lot of magic over in your lands.”  
  
“Something like that.” Finlandi states it simply, not boasting but pure fact. “One of my magi told me the leylines are of an especially good quality.” She pauses, trying to recall the exact words. “The channels for the Greater Source allow for more flow than usual.”  
  
“Ah, but what about Od…” Noregr begins, and the conversation quickly delves into a level of magical theory beyond Svíþjóð’s very basic comprehension. But Finlandi looks more at ease now, with a comfortable subject and the presence of another girl. Even if he can’t understand, he can at least appreciate the benefits.  
  
A thump just behind Svíþjóð distracts him from his watching, and he turns to see Danmǫrk hoist himself back onto the deck with a groan. A feeling akin to amusement fills him as he watches his brother wring his dripping clothes out. Svíþjóð debates for a second about telling the other boy about the seaweed stuck in his unruly hair, then decides against it.  
  
“She didn’t have to toss me in!” Danmǫrk shakes his cloak out, water splattering on the wooden slats. To Svíþjóð’s disappointment, he notices the seaweed. Tossing it back into the ocean, his brother eyes the still-talking girls. “So, that’s Finlandi, huh?”  
  
Svíþjóð just grunts in acknowledgment. For some reason, this is not a conversation he wants to be having with Danmǫrk.  
  
“Huh.” Danmǫrk sits cross-legged, letting the sun’s heat speed the drying process. “She’s tiny. Pretty cute though.”  
  
“…Hn,” is Svíþjóð’s only response. Even for him, this level of reticence is unusual, and he isn’t sure where it’s stemming from. It’s not like Danmǫrk is doing anything particular bad now…and it is true Finlandi is beau-really cute. He decides it’s his promise to Finlandi. He said he’d take care of her, after all, and that extends even to his brother who frequently doesn’t know when to stop. Noregr can handle Danmǫrk so it’s alright with her, but Finlandi is…different.  
  
Poorly hidden snickering gets his attention, and when Svíþjóð looks down at his brother his stomach sinks. Danmǫrk is smirking, but worse yet his dark blue eyes are glinting with a perceptive air. Even knowing the other Land better than anyone, longer than anyone, Svíþjóð sometimes forgets buried beneath his brother’s rambunctious, impulsive surface is surprising canniness and depth. Danmǫrk just usually lets it lie because he finds living in the moment more fun, but it occasionally springs out like a hidden blade-often at the worst or most embarrassing possible time.  
  
“What were y’gonna do, Sví? Hide her away forever?” Danmǫrk looks extremely amused. “Never thought you’d be this clumsy about it.”  
  
Like Danmǫrk has any right to talk about emotional awkwardness. Svíþjóð is already moving to shove him back in the water when the newest arrival to the docks stops him mid-motion. Even Finlandi and Noregr stop talking, and the world gains a strangely muted quality. It’s something that always happens when fully-grown Lands are among them. Their presences have a ripple effect on their surroundings. And with Germania in particular, strong and utterly implacable as she is, this is especially overwhelming.  
  
Judging from the way Finlandi goes wide-eyed and still, this is her first time ever encountering someone of her level. Svíþjóð wants badly to go over and reassure her, but the way Germania’s green eyes bore into all them has him immobile.  
  
“Welcome back, Svíþjóð,” Germania finally says. It breaks the tension enough that Svíþjóð can remind his body to breathe again. Her gaze shifts to Finlandi, who is going paler by the second. “And you as well, little one.”  
  
Svíþjóð doesn’t know why Germania is acting so guardedly, like Finlandi is some sort of threat, but he can’t stand idly by anymore. Closing the distance between them, he takes Finlandi’s hand in his own. Her fingers press tightly into his, the subtle trembling of her frame evident now.  
  
“Th’s is Finlandi,” Svíþjóð begins, gently squeezing her hand. “She’s m’guest h’re, Germania.”

He’s careful to emphasize that last part. There are some things Germania holds important above all else, and sacred hospitality is one of them. By invoking it, he’s explicitly putting Finlandi under his protection, even if it means having to defend her from Germania by extension. Svíþjóð can tell, well-hidden though it is by her stoic air, just how taken aback his guardian is by the lengths he’s willing to go.  
  
The long sigh she lets out is a bit harder to figure out, though. Especially since it seems to be made of equal parts concern, amusement, and resignation. It’s at times like this Danmǫrk’s idea that Lands tend to get stranger with age seems disturbingly plausible.  
  
“Then she should be welcomed as such,” Germania says before Svíþjóð can follow that line of thought further. “Come to the longhouse so you can all rest up before dinner.” The Land turns on her heel at that, presumably to go prepare for the evening meal.

Svíþjóð is still bothered by the strange way she had acted upon seeing Finlandi, but at least the small girl isn’t shaking anymore. He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, feels her breathing become more even.  
  
“S’rry about th’t,” Svíþjóð tells her awkwardly.  
  
“Is she always so…ah…intense?” Finlandi asks, pausing towards the end like she is taking extra care with her phrasing.  
  
“No. ‘S strange.” Svíþjóð knows Germania has been under more stress than normal lately, what with relations with Roma getting progressively worse by the day. But it isn’t like her to act that coldly to someone she’s never met before. Germania is far from the warmest person out there, but she acts within her honor code.  
  
“Hey, are you just gonna stand there talkin’ forever?” Danmǫrk yells from further up where he and Noregr have already started walking.  
  
“Loudm’th,” Svíþjóð grunts, then glances down at Finlandi. “Y’ready?”  
  
“Yeah,” Finlandi tells him with a little fluttering smile. “Let’s go.”  
  
Thankfully, supper passes without the tension that had been so prevalent earlier.

Germania has a very plentiful spread of food laid out, meats and bread and even fresh fruit and vegetables. It’s more than the already generous amount they normally offer for guests- Svíþjóð wonders if this is her way of making amends for her actions at the docks. Finlandi is much brighter and more animated, and between herself and Danmǫrk enough liveliness and conversation is brought to the table that it makes up for the quieter personalities of Noregr, Germania, and himself.  
  
Finlandi seems very interested in the lands she has not had much personal contact with up until now, and her curiosity is heartening. She’s more than happy to share information of her own territory in turn, painting a vivid picture of a land teeming with lakes and forests. If at times it feels to Svíþjóð like she’s trying a little too hard to be cheerful, those moments are few and far between.

The food is mostly cleared away by the time Germania excuses herself, needing to oversee preparations for the trip she’s going to be taking back to her own territory. It’s nothing the three of them aren’t used to, though, and taking care of the cleanup and clearing goes smoothly enough.  
  
It is not till much later, when they’ve all settled in to sleep for the night, that Svíþjóð even realizes something is wrong. He and Finlandi share a cot, as the one he, Danmǫrk, and Noregr usually sleep in isn’t big enough to admit a fourth person, even one as tiny as Finlandi. There’s a vague feeling at the back of his mind that it would have been more appropriate to share with his brother instead and let the girls sleep together. Much as he tries to rationalize that Finlandi would be more comfortable with someone she knew a little better…  
  
It simply comes down to the fact Svíþjóð wants to be near her.  
  
He’s settled comfortably into the bed by this point, warmed by a few bricks pulled from the fire along with Finlandi’s body heat. Svíþjóð has his eyes closed in an effort to drift off to sleep when he feels the pressure of a stare directed his way. It can only be from Finlandi, of course, but that doesn’t tell him why she’s doing it. He’s careful to control his breathing, giving the appearance of slumber while he tries to figure out what to do.

A minute passes, during which the weight of the gaze doesn’t lessen. Svíþjóð is about to dismiss it as mere restlessness on her part and attempt to fall asleep despite it when a small sniff, muffled like the source is trying to conceal it, reaches his ears.  
  
His eyes flit open, and Finlandi gives a trembling start-evidently she truly thought him to be asleep. The shaking grows harder as he looks closer and a frown knits his brow. Even in the dim light cast by the slowly dwindling fire, Svíþjóð can tell Finlandi’s eyes are damp. He can spot the faintest tracks left by tears shining on her cheeks, and the realization makes his stomach sink.  
  
“A-ah, Sve! I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean to wake you up,” Finlandi says in a kind of raised whisper. She attempts a smile, but it falls when Svíþjóð wipes at her cheek with one hand.  
  
“Wh’t’s wrong?” he asks her quietly. Svíþjóð’s eyes flick over to the other cot where Danmǫrk lies sound asleep next to Noregr, dead to the world even through the kicks the girl is prone to while slumbering. He took care not to leave Finlandi alone with his brother, so he doesn’t think Danmǫrk is at fault for once, but he really can’t think of what has her upset.  
  
“Nothing, I’m fine,” Finlandi insists, but she curls the blankets tightly around her like armor. “I’m just having a hard time falling asleep, really-”

She quails as Svíþjóð’s frown deepens, her words halting abruptly. Neither of them break the silence, and the strained quiet is almost painful to bear.

“…I miss my home,” Finland finally murmurs, her voice very small. She shuffles deeper into the blankets and doesn’t look at Svíþjóð, but he’s grateful for that. It means she can’t see the guilt flashing across his face, stirring him up inside. Because he’s thinking, really thinking about all that’s passed. And all that rises in his mind is his own selfishness.

Had he ever taken Finlandi’s feelings into account? Svíþjóð may have asked her to come with him of her own will, but it still remains that he took Finlandi from her home to a far-off land filled with strangers, not all of whom acted kindly towards her. That she is able to keep up such a strong, bright front for so long, faced with all that, is truly remarkable.  
  
But it still remains his fault Finlandi is sad to begin with, when Svíþjóð should have been the one to make her the happiest. Distractedly, he strokes her hair while he feverishly thinks of something-anything-to make things better.  
  
“’m sorry. Didn’t th’nk about y’r feelings,” Svíþjóð mumbles awkwardly. Though he means what he says, mere words feel like such a hollow way of apologizing.  
  
“It was fun with you,” Finlandi tells him, his spirits rising as she snuggles closer. Her voice is still a little watery, but it’s gaining in strength. “I-I’ve just never been away from my own lands before, so…it’s natural to feel homesick.”  
  
“Mm,” Svíþjóð replies, noting the way her heart beat and breathing seemed to have slowed when compared to before, a sign she was calming down. He keeps stroking her hair anyway. “Didn’t g’t much of a ch’nce to explore y’r place.”  
  
“Ah, then you’ll just have to come visit me!” Finlandi whispers softly, but her face is cheerful again. “There’s so much for you to see-and it’s almost berry season. There’s nothing like fresh cloudberries-”  
  
She talks on like that, quietly enough not to wake the others but still filled with enthusiasm. More and more frequently her words become punctuated by yawns, and finally she nods off against Svíþjóð’s shoulder. He’s not over his revelation from earlier, but in the darkness with Finlandi’s light breaths brushing against his neck it fades enough for him to fall asleep.

* * *

The rest of the time Finlandi spends over in his lands goes much more smoothly. It’s enough that after Svíþjóð sees her off on the boat that takes her back to her own territory, he engages in more than a little moping. Danmǫrk mocks him mercilessly for it, of course, but Finlandi’s absence leaves a gaping emptiness within that will not be filled.

When a month has passed and he can’t stand it anymore, Svíþjóð summons up all his daring and pays Finlandi a visit. It’s much easier to find her this time around-she can probably sense him as he senses her by this point-and despite being a little surprised to see Svíþjóð so soon, he is welcomed graciously. He basks in her company, drinking it in as the trees do sunshine, but all it takes is being without her to bring back the hollow feeling.  
  
In the end it more or less happens that they engage in regular visits on both their parts. Svíþjóð suspects Finlandi likes being around others better than by herself, and he’s just happy to have her around.

It is part of their nature, though he has never understood too clearly why, to be able to quickly cross the distances between lands as reducing it to practically nothing. This makes it easier for their little group than it would have if they had all been human, so whether it’s on Svíþjóð’s lands, Noregr’s, Danmǫrk’s or Finlandi’s, they spend most of their time with each other.  
  
It’s a small bit of fortune, for all them. The world is changing, and stability of any sort a rare prize. Germania and Roma’s relationship is so utterly deteriorated Svíþjóð only sees the latter a few times in the next two centuries, but every time he does her appearance comes as a stark shock. It is hard to believe that strong, vivacious woman he remembers from when he was small is the same Land that looks so utterly exhausted, and moves like it takes everything she has. 

There is just one time he sees a spark of her old self through that tired frame-when she is with two tiny girls, each sporting a single wayward curl that stands out from the rest of their hair. Roma smiles at them like she had once at Svíþjóð and Danmǫrk, brightly and with genuine fondness. But beyond that instance, Svíþjóð can’t help but be reminded of some great, powerful animal brought down to its last bit of strength.  
  
It worries him, when he thinks on it. Svíþjóð knows their kind can weaken and fade, even if it’s vastly different from the way humans perish. But to see it for himself is an entirely different matter. Svíþjóð tries not to let it prey on his mind-that only leads to sleepless nights and thoughts of _’Will that happen to me too?’_ , and he has no time for such things.

Though it is a gradual thing, he can feel a kind of coalescence happening within his lands, to his people. He is becoming more of his own being, and less an extension of Germania-much like his brother and somewhat more slowly, Noregr. He’s growing up. Finlandi is too, but to much less of an extent than the others, and it eats at him inside with concern.  
  
The years pass, in the way they do for their kind, both vividly and still in a kind of blur. Only to them can a century be both so long, yet so very little. Perhaps that’s why when that day comes, over two hundred years after Svíþjóð first met Finlandi, it imprints itself so deeply in his mind. After all, the world is forever transformed after it.  
  
They are all together, at the longhouse Danmǫrk has on his lands. Anyone who looks upon them sees only a small group of children no more than eight years old, playing together, and for all purposes that day they may as well be. Finlandi is doing some mending work on a pair of gloves, and Svíþjóð watches her out of the corner of his eye while sharpening his sword. Danmǫrk is hanging off Noregr, pestering her to play with him even as he seems to be making a game of seeing just how far he can bring her to the end of her patience without getting hit. It’s a very ordinary day.  
  
Until Germania shows up.  
  
They hear her horse approaching before they even see her, its great hooves pounding against the earth. Noregr shoves Danmǫrk off her one last time, likely to go and get Germania some much needed refreshment while Svíþjóð sets down his sword so he can help his guardian with her steed. But then Germania walks in, and the room freezes as a whole.  
  
It’s the look in her eyes, more than anything. Svíþjóð can’t ever recall seeing such a thing from her in the four hundred years he has been under her care-a gaze so cold, so _final_ , and buried deep underneath it all, something like sadness. It scares him, those eyes.  
  
None of them speak, and even Danmǫrk is at a loss for words. Germania does nothing to discourage it, merely setting down her traveling pack with a thud. Through it all, her hand remains tightly clenched around the hilt of her sword, so much her knuckles are white with tension. She does not let go of it for an instant.  
  
The firelight isn’t all that bright, but Svíþjóð can spot bloodstains on the pommel. For Germania who meticulously cares for her weapons as the most valuable possessions she has, this can only mean something huge has happened. And he knows where she had just returned from. It is not hard to guess the rest, but at the same time it is so unbelievable he needs to hear it from Germania herself.  
  
Svíþjóð forces himself to move, to bring over the old rag and oil he had been using to maintain his own sword to her. Germania blinks distantly at him as he holds it out to her, as if she hadn’t truly registered any of their presences until just now. She takes it, slow and careful, and sits down with her sheathed blade resting in her lap.  
  
“Germania,” Svíþjóð begins hesitantly. Smooth speech is not his forte, but he is the oldest-and none of the others seem to be able to summon the ability to talk. It leaves the responsibility to him, even with his poor skills. “Wh’t…happened down in R’me?”  
  
Germania says nothing at first, merely sliding the sword out of its sheath and diligently wiping it down. Every little sound, from Finlandi’s tiny gasp to his brother swallowing hard, resounds loudly in the silence.  
  
“An end happened,” Germania says, short and abrupt. She does not lift her eyes from her weapon, and wipes much harder than needed where the bloodstains are, even after all traces of them are gone.  
  
That can only mean one thing, no matter how shocking it is. Svíþjóð opens and shuts his mouth, but any sort of response eludes him.  
  
Germania finally looks up and around, but her eyes are very much focused elsewhere though they rest on her charges. Her hands still wipe at the sword, almost desperately. Even her voice, as she delivers the rest, sounds far-off.  
  
“Imperium Romanum is dead.”  
  
With those words, everything changes. An old age ends, and the world will never be the same again.

* * *

 

 **Author’s Notes:**  
Well, this turned out to be a bit more in depth than I originally expected /understatement. I’ll try to keep it to the point, at least. This fic (and the series as a whole) will span from various parts of the Early Iron Age (0CE-500CE) right up until the modern era. There was quite a bit of working around I had to do at various times, especially since the concept of a “Nation” doesn’t really exist as we know it by this point. 800 CE marks the start of the Viking Age, so here the Nordics are more like proto-Nations than actual Nations at this point and still in what is technically “pre-history” for them. Just kids, really, which is why their personalities aren't quite as they'll be later. But being as the concept of a “Nation” didn’t really exist in the way we think of it at this point, it’s more than likely the conditions for “personifications of the land and people” coming into existence were a bit different then than they are now-or rather just not set in stone, given the presence of colony!America.  
  
How far does my mania for this go? I have a timeline. It’s _color-coded_. And two feet long and growing. *weeps*  
  
Anyway, data pre-Viking era is pretty challenging to find-the Germanic tribes themselves weren’t really recording stuff so much, so most sources were written by outsiders (Tacitus’s _Germania_ is one example. But going by what I figured would allow Nations to be born back then, the unity brought about by geographical and cultural ties, I put Sweden and Denmark as being roughly the same age (0CE, with Sweden being just a bit older), Norway slightly younger than them, and Finland around 100CE (which would have been about the end of the Baltic migration up to Finland and when a uniquely Finnish culture was really starting to take hold.  
  
One last extensive note-on names. This gave me ~~a huge headache~~ some trouble because I couldn’t rationalize the characters calling each other by names that historically inaccurate. It’d be like calling Prussia by that name when he was still the Teutonic Order. So after much hair-pulling, I decided to go by the names that would have been used at the time in the respective Nation’s own language wherever possible. It helps that Sweden, Denmark, and Norway are all pretty obvious. Finland is an interesting case (and this is perhaps a reflection of the lack of unity that would hurt her later on) in that there were roughly a billion and a half Old Norse names for her. Fenland, Finlandi, Finlont…in the end I went with the one that most resembles what she ended up with so it becomes at least a little less confusing. Hellás is Ancient Greece of course, and Kemet Ancient Egypt. For the life of me, I could not find a name for Germania, so…it sticks.  
  
Whew! Okay, onto the short and sweet facts.  
-Although Sweden and Denmark were “born” roughly 0CE, Germania didn’t actually find them until about 30 years later. Before that, you could say they existed more as ideas than people. I have them as siblings because much of the research I found referred to Swedes and Danes coming from the same tribal stock (Northern Germanic tribes), whereas Norway had both a high population of Sámi indigenous peoples (though I have a separate personification of the Sámi people who are definitely not culturally or ethnically Norwegian) followed by migration of Western Germanic tribes (so more from Gaul than Germania). But considering the ambiguous way Nations even come into existence, how you view a relationship where they aren’t outright stated to be related (I.e., Germany and Prussia) can be up to you. At the very least, there’s a “sibling” relationship. (And really Denmark and Sweden look a lot alike anyway, but whatever).  
  
-As for everyone understanding each other, this is a throwback to an old note of Himaruya’s that Nations have a universal language-that or built in translators, take your pick. They can understand each other, but when talking to someone who isn’t a Nation (like Finland with Truvor), knowing the language or having a translator is necessary.  
  
-The river Germania and Sweden follow is the Helge-it pretty much leads straight to the coast of Sweden that’s across from Denmark.  
  
-An _assarius_ (or _as_ , but seeing as I couldn’t stop giggling immaturely at the plural “asses”…) is a bronze Roman coin. By the time of Diocletian, 380 assarius would buy you a little less than two and half pounds of pork, for instance, so adjusting that for inflation and so on is how I arrived at the price Germania paid for Sweden’s clothes. And if it still seems a bit low-hey, the lady is a mean bargainer. As anyone with the Germanic Death Gaze (See: Germany, Sweden) would be.  
  
-Speaking of the clothes, one may recognize them as the clothes little Sweden wore in the Volume 3 extra page. They’re all pretty much wearing the same outfits here.  
  
\- Hroerkr and Truvor are real Old Norse names, but the reason I chose them is for a little historical amusement-both relate to Rurik, whom you may know better as “that Viking Guy who became the first ruler of Russia”. Hroerkr is (one of many) alternate readings of Rurik, and Truvor was a brother of his. I like to think of the two namesakes featured in the story as his ancestors. (The weird oedipal undertones this adds to Russia taking Finland in the end-“You aren’t the boss of me, Dad!” is just a bonus.)  
  
- **Trajan** (r. 98CE-117 CE) was one of the “Five Good Emperors” and kind of big deal-after roughly a century of guys like Nero and Caligula running things into the ground, he pretty much not only took the Roman Empire out of the tailspin it was in, but actually expanded it to the most territory it would cover in its history. Pretty badass-you know you’re sweet stuff when even uptight medieval theologians praise you as a “virtuous pagan”. Unfortunately, not all Roman Emperors had Trajan’s mad emperor-ing skillz, which leads us to this next guy.  
  
- **Alexander Severus** (r. 222 CE-235CE) was actually not a bad Emperor by most accounts-at least there wasn’t any crazy Caligula-esque stuff from him-but when he was having problems with the Germanic tribesmen attacking and tried paying/using diplomacy to get them to lay off, his troops assassinated him for ‘unsoldierly conduct’.  
  
- **The Crisis of the Third Century** is what his death kicked off, i.e. everyone and their mom trying to grab the throne for themselves. By the time Diocletian came around and got some stability going again, it pretty much marked the beginning of the end. The Roman currency had depreciated, the empire split up into three territories (The Gallic Empire consisting of Gaul, Britannia, and Hispania, the Palmyrene Empire to the East, and the Roman Empire consisting of Italia proper-oh hi there, proto-Veneziano and Romano), and was a shadow of its old self at best. You see the foundations of what would lead to the Middle Ages (small, walled cities, proto-serfdom, barter system over coinage) laid about this time too.  
  
- **Ahvaland** is a very early name for Åland/Ahvenanmaa. Needless to say, this will be relevant later.  
  
-To meet Finland, Sweden started at what is now present day Turku, followed the Aura/Aurajoki river until he hit what is now present day Lieto.  
  
- **The Bard** -this guy should be obvious to any Nordics fan worth their salmiakki. The style of fortune telling used by him is authentic, seen in _The Kalevala_ as well as a similar mention in Tacitus’s _Germania_.  
  
- _Joku on täällä?_ Should be mean “Someone is here?”, but if I messed that up (as I probably did), feel free to tell me-and please forgive me.  
  
- **Yellow October Nautilus** -Oh Finland. Bonus points to those who catch every reference in that name.  
  
- **Sacred Hospitality** -What we can safely call Serious Business of the highest level, especially in Norse culture. A host may not harm his guest, a guest may not harm his host-and breaking this was considered extremely taboo. That Germania threatened to do it anyway showed just how much she wanted Roma to stop badtouching her.  
  
-We end in 476CE-the year the Western Roman Empire fell. Well, there were some remnants for a few years after, but in general things were over when Julius Nepos and Romulus Augustus were disposed by Germanic invaders. Himaruya said Germania dealt the killing blow, but seeing as Germania doesn’t long outlast Western Rome (whereas the Byzantine Empire continued on for a while longer), my theory is that the splitting of the Empire around the time of Diocletian resulted in Rome being only the personification of the West, and Ancient Greece/Hellás continuing on to represent the East as Byzantium.  
  
Yeesh…that was long. I think that’s it as far as notes, but just let me know if there’s something I missed/got wrong/other and I’ll answer as best I can. 

 


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